Firsts
by SovietBand
Summary: He was Bruce, and she was Selina, and one day, when they were children, they shared a kiss. It was their first kiss, and perhaps their most significant, for that kiss brought them together, and together they were prone to cause quite a stir.
1. Chapter 1: The Punch and the Demand

Summary: He was Bruce, and she was Selina, and one day, when they were children, they shared a kiss. It was their first kiss, and perhaps their most significant, for that kiss brought them together, and _together_ they were prone to cause quite a stir.

* * *

Chapter One

\- Firsts -

* * *

Sometimes, she thought that if she stopped fighting, she would disappear.

He wanted to fight, but was still learning how.

The shadows were her greatest ally.

One day, they would be his too.

She wanted to be safe.

He wanted to abandon his safety to make the city safer.

She wore apple on her lips.

He loved the taste.

She was terrified all the time.

He had long since abandoned terror, yet knew he needed to be feared.

She was a thief.

He was a knight.

She was Selina.

He was Bruce.

And one day, when they were children, they shared a kiss. It was their first kiss, and perhaps their most significant, for that kiss brought them together, and _together_ they were prone to cause quite a stir.

The whole thing started, Selina would later reflect, with a demand – disguised as a question and complete with the unpleasant consequence if she chose not to comply.

The whole thing started, Bruce would later reflect, with a punch. The simple, glorious motion of Mickey van Low's ring-laden fist as it flew through the air and smashed against Bruce's nose.

* * *

\- The Punch -

* * *

Bone snapped with the crunch of gristle, and blood spurted thickly. Bruce hit the ground with a heavy thud and gasped for breath. The heavy balaclava, now damp with his blood, choked him.

Through, blurred eyes, Bruce saw Van Low loom over him, scowling and rubbing his red fist. "Get him up."

Thick arms gripped Bruce's shoulders, hauling him roughly to his feet. Van Low just looked at Bruce, frowning. Bruce knew Van Low's face as well as he knew his own. It had been a good face. Once. The man's bright blue eyes sunk into his face. His cheekbones were sharp and angular, and his jowls were two thick lines curving around his mouth – all likely from years of suffering one addiction or another. Van Low opened his mouth to speak, and Bruce caught a glimpse of the man's yellowing teeth.

"You know who I work for?"

"I've heard," Bruce grunted. His broken nose made his voice sound nasally and thick. A sharp knife of panic slid into Bruce's spine, when Van Low pulled the balaclava over Bruce's head. He sought the man's blue eyes for any hint of recognition, but Van Low's eyes remained hard.

"Fucking kid," Van Low said with an incredulous shake of his head. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

The bar's door burst open and one of Van Low's thugs came in in. Blood tricked from a gash above his right eyebrow, and his eye had swollen shut – a gift from Bruce's left elbow. "Girl's gone," the thug breathed heavily.

Van Low swore and rounded on the thug. "THEN GET BACK OUT THERE AND FIND HER!"

Bruce couldn't stop the corner of his mouth twisting into a smug, half-smile. He hid it quickly, but not before Van Low saw. Van Low's fist struck, and Bruce's head snapped back. "Do you even know what you've got yourself into, kid?" Van Low said in Bruce's ear, voice barely louder than a whisper. He struck again, burying his fist into Bruce's stomach. If it wasn't for the thug's tight grip, Bruce was sure he would have fallen.

Van Low lashed out, again and again. Bruce tried to keep count of the punches, but soon the pain was too much. His legs were buckled and his head hung limply, dripping dark blood onto Van Low's polished floorboards.

"What do we do with him?" one of the thug's holding Bruce said, when Van low finally stepped away, breathing heavy, ragged breaths. "Leave him for the boss?"

Van Low spat on Bruce. "Take him to the pier and put a knife in him."

"You sure? The kid smells like rich blood."

"No one with any money to their name comes to the Narrows at night," Van Low said. "Put a knife in him and feed him to the sea."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Bruce's boots caught on the roughly hewn planks before the thug dragging him pulled him away. The motion and the pain that came with it drew Bruce away from the loving darkness and into the throbbing, aching, waking world by the moonlit docks.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to remain limp. His body moaned in protest, and it took every ounce of willpower not to grit his teeth or hiss in pain. His left arm was the worst, worse than even his nose. Every jolt sent waves of pain flowing through him. He tried to wiggle his fingers, even slightly.

 _Dislocated_ , he concluded. _Badly._ It was already going to be hard enough without dragging his dead arm with him

"You have to get 'em right between the ribs. Right here. Severs the aorta – bloke's dead in seconds. Works every time," one of the thugs said conversationally.

"We should cut his throat," the other thug countered.

Bruce heard a heavy glob of spit crack against water, and the heavy hand released his hood. "Throat cutting's too messy," the first thug said. Blood goes everywhere, 'specially if their scared. And they're always scared. You know how hard it is to wash someone else's blood out of your clothes?"

If Bruce strained his ears hard enough, he could hear the soft sounds of the sea in the gaps of the thug's conversations. It seemed so close.

"What're you waiting for?"

"You're the one who wanted to put it in his chest. You do it."

With a heavy sigh, the first thug pulled his knife from his pocket and took a knee. "You're an ornery son-a-bitch, aren't you?"

 _Now!_

Bruce's eyes flew open so suddenly the thug jerked back in surprise. "What the–" His knife flashed wildly, but Bruce was already moving. With his body burning with fresh pain, Bruce rolled towards the edge of the pier and hit the water with a loud splash. The impact seared, but Bruce let the darkness swallow him as he descended. Keeping his dislocated arm tight against his chest, he struck out, swimming as fast and as hard as he could until his lungs burst for air.

The pier was far behind him. He could only just make out Van Low's thugs. In the darkness, there was no way they could see him.

Breathing deeply and ignoring the pain, Bruce struck out, kicking softly and dragging himself through the water with one arm.

It was a long way home.

And he was running out of night.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Alfred exclaimed when he appeared in the kitchen just before the crack of dawn. The old butler had thrown a robe over his pyjamas and had forgone slippers – it was one of the few times Bruce could remember seeing the man without his suit.

Bruce took the bag of frozen corn-kernels away from his nose and said, "Would you believe me if I said I fell out of bed?"

"And off a two storey building too?" Alfred quipped back. "Look at you – you're a mess!"

"It feels worse than it looks," Bruce said.

"I bet it does. Come on then, turn around properly. Let me see." Hot air squeezed through Alfred's teeth as Bruce gingerly turned and let the kitchen light fall on the full impact of Van Low's assault.

"Who did this?" Alfred demanded. He took the frozen bag of corn from Bruce and pressed it against Bruce's swollen nose. Bruce winced. "And this time don't give me any of your bullshit jokes."

Bruce sighed loudly and said, "I went after the fence."

"Mr Van Low?"

"That's the one."

"And I take it the visit didn't go as well as you imagined it would."

"Not quite," Bruce admitted. "But it was worth a few cuts and a dislocated shoulder

"A dislocated shoulder?" Alfred asked.

"The left one."

Alfred retrieved a pair of scissors from a draw and began cutting away Bruce's blood-stained hoodie. When it was pulled away, Bruce heard Alfred breathe in sharply. He looked down and winced. His torso was a mess of purple bruises and cuts, and his shoulder had become so swollen it looked like a balloon had been blown up beneath his skin.

"You need to go to a hospital, Bruce," Alfred said.

"No!" Bruce said sharply, catching Alfred's arm. "No doctors, no hospitals."

"Master Bruce, that nose needs to popped back into place, and that cut on your temple will need a dozen stitches – probably more. And your arm . . . putting an arm back into place is a painful thing, you'll want some drugs for that, I assure you."

"I can handle pain," Bruce said.

"Maybe so, but why would you want to?

"Alfred, going to a hospital means answering questions."

"We can tell them you crashed your dirt bike on the track. Went right into a tree."

"Do you think a doctor will really believe that I got _these_ ," Bruce gestured widely at himself, "from crashing a bike?"

"We'll tell them some other story, then."

But Bruce was already shaking his head. "If we see a doctor of any quality, they will deduce that I was attacked. The last thing I want is a headline saying: 'Bruce Wayne Attacked', or some other printed garbage that will inevitably come. So no, Alfred. No hospitals."

For a moment it looked like Alfred was going to argue, but the old man just shook his head and pulled up another stool in front of Bruce. "No hospitals," he agreed, although a little rebelliously.

"Good," Bruce said. "Now let's patch me up."

Alfred shook his head again, and retrieved a half-full bottle of spirits from a top shelf in the kitchen. "You said you could handle pain?" he said, opening the bottle. The smell of whiskey drifted out of the opening.

Bruce realised what was coming and braced himself. Alfred poured some of the amber over the gash on Bruce's face. The whiskey burned fire inside the wound and seeped down into the smaller cuts and scrapes until Bruce's face was an inferno of pain. Mouth clenched tightly, Bruce allowed a groan to break through his teeth.

"That was the easy part," Alfred said, taking a swig from the bottle. "You sure you don't want the doctor's painkillers?"

"Get on with it," Bruce said tightly.

"Right. Well the nose is simple enough. Come now, head up, look at me." Alfred placed his hands on Bruce's face, thumbs cradling the abused nose. "Ready? On three . . . one . . . two."

 _Crack._

Fresh blood escaped from his nose and dripped down his mouth and chin. Alfred quickly picked up a tea towel and gave it to Bruce. "Give it a moment, it'll stop bleeding soon. I'm going to get a needle and thread. And put that corn on your shoulder!"

Bruce grimaced as he moved the frozen corn bag to his swollen shoulder. When Alfred returned, sewing kit in hand, he gestured for Bruce to move the towel away. "Nice and straight, just like your father's," he commented. "Sometimes I wonder if my skills are wasted being your butler."

Bruce smirked.

"Tell me about your visit with Mr Van Low," Alfred said, as he readied the needle by pouring a dollop of whiskey over it and his hands. "Did you get your hands on his ledger before he got his hands on you?"

Bruce shook his head, frowning. "He was in there with three of his goons. I was going to come back another night, but . . ."

"That girl you mentioned." Alfred sat on the stool and leaned in close to Bruce, threaded needle held ready. Bruce winced as it pierced his skin.

"They were beating her, Alfred." Bruce felt his fists clench. "Punching her, kicking her, dragging her by the hair. I couldn't turn my back and walk away. I took the first one down before the others noticed I was there. The girl caught on quick and was out the door as soon as Van Low and the others turned on me. Three-on-one, the fight didn't last long. I need training against multiple opponents."

"I dare say you're right," Alfred agreed. "How'd you get away?"

"Van Low ordered his men to kill me and toss my body from the pier. I took advantage and jumped in the sea before they could stab me."

"And you swam all the way here?"

"Walked too. Couldn't go back for the bike."

"I'm amazed you could even swim in the condition you're in," Alfred grumbled without sounding the least bit amazed.

"The girl is _alive_ , Alfred," Bruce said. "If I hadn't gone out tonight, Mickey van Low and his gang would have killed her. Or worse."

"That's all well and good, sir. And I'm glad you saved the girl's life, but if you saving people means coming back like this every night . . . I'm not sure its worth it."

"Christ gave his life to save humanity – I can handle injuries like these to save one."

"Comparing yourself to Jesus Christ now, are you? And I thought you had the shrinks convinced you didn't have delusions of grandeur."

"You know what I mean," Bruce said. "But you're right. These injuries can't happen every time I go out."

"And have you any thoughts about how to achieve that?"

"They fought back, Alfred. They weren't afraid of me."

"Well that's what happens when you hit a man – he tries to hit you back."

"They weren't _afraid_ ," Bruce stressed. "People are afraid of criminals – they're scared of what they'll do. They lock and bolt their doors, they don't go out at night. Their fear makes the scum of this city seem bigger and more terrifying than they really are. It gives them power."

"And were you afraid, Master Bruce?"

"No, I wasn't afraid – I wasn't. But they weren't afraid of me either. Until they are, I'm never going to make any real difference in this city."

"And how are you going to do that – make them fear you?"

"I . . . don't know."

"Certainly not by letting them pound you into the ground every night."

Bruce snorted. "It is a bit counter-productive." Alfred tied off the final stitch and drenched the wound in whiskey again. This time it didn't hurt as badly. "It all comes back to fear, Alfred. If I'm going to do this, then I need to become more than just a man."

"Delusions of grandeur," Alfred repeated. "Stand up and lean over the table. Let's get this arm sorted out." He picked a fresh tea towel and threw it at Bruce. "Ball that up and bite down on it – don't want you biting off your tongue." He took hold of Bruce's arm and jerked it towards him. Bruce gasped.

"That wasn't so bad," he said, voice muffled from the cloth.

"That was for getting blood all over the kitchen," Alfred said. "We're not done yet." He held Bruce's wrist tightly. "Scream, if you need to. No one will hear.

"On three?"

"Right . . . on three."

Alfred pulled, and Bruce screamed.

* * *

\- The Demand -

* * *

Selina always thought Mickey van Low's bar was a scummy piece of shit. There were better fences in the city, with much, much, better (cleaner) fronts to hide their under-the-table business. Selina's favourite was the florist a few blocks outside Gotham CBD. The elderly couple who tended the shop were sweet, and always gave Selina food when she came to visit. They paid well too, and could move most pieces, regardless of the heat on it at the time.

Mickey van Low's joint was not like that – not at all, but the creep had underworld connections outside of Gotham and occasionally, that made all the difference - especially when the infamous fence asked for her directly. That usually indicated a big payout was on the cards.

One of Mickey's thuggish men was waiting outside. Selina prided herself on knowing everyone in the business by name, but this time it took her a while to recognise the man underneath his swollen, bruised face. "Hey, Rod," she said, flouncing up to him. "Trying a new look?"

"Mickey's downstairs," the thug Rod grunted. "Better hurry, he's got company."

"Who?"

Rod didn't reply, but Selina could feel his eye on her as she pushed open the door and walked inside. She was used to men staring at her, and as long as they knew not to try anything with their hands, she couldn't care less about where their eyes went.

The bar was empty, aside from a nervous looking barman wiping down the bench with a dirty rag, and another one of Mickey's goon squad on his knees attacking a dark red stain that looked suspiciously like blood. Selina ignored them both and hurried through the back. When she reached the stairs, she froze.

"Hello, kitty-cat, we've been waiting." Victor Zsasz's voice oozed at her. In the summer heat, he wore his sleeves rolled up, exposing dozens of self-inflicted scars. He had carved several more into his flesh since the last time Selina had seen him. The worst one though, was the single scar slashed on his bald forehead. That was his trophy, and it meant that there were four more people walking around somewhere with Zsasz's target on their backs.

Selina breathed through her nose, and tried to hide her discomfort. _If Zsasz is here, that means . . ._

As if sensing Selina's discomfort, Zsasz grinned at her and opened the door leading down.

"Thanks," Selina muttered and squeezed past him. She could feel his eyes on her back, in a way not at all similar to how Rod had looked at her. She shivered, despite the heat.

The basement was filled with crates of alcohol, all carefully categorised and organised for easy access. An old computer and ledger sat on a desk near the staircase. A nervous looking man Selina didn't recognise was sitting at the desk, flicking through Mickey's books. He caught her eye and nodded deeper inside the basement – behind the stores of alcohol. Selina tilted her head to the side as a tense voice sounded, confirming the suspicions Zsasz's presence had given her.

"That girl was a precious commodity," the penguin snapped, "and you should never have laid a hand on her! She was to be delivered to me undamaged. I was very clear when I expressed that, wasn't I?"

"Yes, sir, but. . ."

Behind Penguin, his giant shadow Butch Gilzean shifted and cleared his throat. "The cat's here," he said, pointing.

Penguin turned and smiled, anger suddenly disappearing. "Cat!" Penguin said, sounding genuinely pleased to see her. He limped over to her, took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. "How are you? Are you well."

"As well as ever," Selina shrugged, smiling her small, fake smile.

"I'm glad to hear," Penguin said. "Can I offer you a drink? Mickey's shout."

It was almost tempting to take Penguin up on the offer, just to see Mickey's face twist at the thought of someone giving away his booze for free. "No, thanks," Selina said. "Quite a lot of blood upstairs. Exciting night?"

"You remember what curiousity killed, don't you?" Mickey said tightly. Seline smirked at him - smirked at the cliche.

"Oh, that?" Penguin said. "That's Mickey's doing, I believe. They had an unwelcome guest last night who took something very valuable from him. Mickey could do nothing but watch helplessly, as his prize fled through the front door."

"What was I supposed to do?" Mickey protested, arching up.

"You could have held onto the man, instead of having him killed and thrown into the sea," Butch said. "You're lucky we don't send you down to join him."

"The girl ran off on her own, keeping him alive wouldn't have helped us find her."

"I am trying not to dwell on all the mistakes you made last night," Penguin said, whirling on Mickey, "but you make it so very hard when you KEEP TALKING!"

Mickey recoiled and settled into bubbling, mutinous silence.

 _Turn that frown upside down, Mick_ , Selina thought. _Or the penguin will cut it off and put it on a plate_.

"So, why am I here?" Selina asked.

"Straight to business," Penguin said to Butch, who grinned. "I like that about her, don't you?" He turned back to Selina and said. "I need you to find someone for me."

"Someone?" Selina emphasised, eyebrows rising. "I'm not really in the business of finding people. I'm really good at stealing things, though."

Penguin laughed politely. "I'm sure your skills can be adapted to suit the need."

Selina wasn't so sure. Things tended to stay in one place, while people were likely to move around without any reasonable logic or pattern – especially if they were on the run. "Why me?" Selina asked. "Surely you have people who can search."

"I do," Penguin said, as if reassuring her, "but, alas, this poor girl has recently experienced some . . . ill treatment, and I believe she will be far more likely to trust a pretty young girl her own age – for that, you are infinitely more able than any one person under my employ."

Selina bit her lip.

"My dear, Cat," the penguin said, smiling his oozing, slimy smile, as if sensing her doubt. "It is imperative that we find this girl. You will do this for me, won't you, Cat? You'll be amply rewarded, of course."

And there it was, the penguin's classic question. Selina had learned a long time ago to spot the demand hidden beneath that smiling query, and the consequences if she decided not to comply.

 _Don't got a choice, do I?_ The look on penguin's face told her she didn't.

She sucked her lips together and nodded. "All right, I'll put the word out – see what I can do. You got a picture?"

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Author's Note: It's been ages since I've posted anything to fanfiction, but I started watching Gotham recently and really, _really_ liked the Selina/Bruce relationship. Anything Bruce and Selina is gold, anything Bruce and Alfred is gold, and anything Jerome is gold.

This story is set a few years after the current season of Gotham. Bruce is around seventeen and Selina is eighteen. I wanted to write about Bruce's journey towards becoming Batman, and I feel like that could only really happen to the extent I want it to when he is older. Unnecessary explanation over. Hope you enjoyed!

If you want more, please review. I'm more likely to write faster if I know people are looking forward to a new chapter. Just affirmation things.


	2. Chapter 2: I Love You, Bruce Wayne

Chapter Two

\- I Love You, Bruce Wayne -

* * *

Cecelia Mayan's lips were warm, tasting softly of strawberries and fresh summer rain. Her kiss was soft and unassuming, careful to avoid the bruised cut on the other side of his mouth. Her face when she had seen him that morning was priceless – a mix of horror and worry that almost made Bruce feel guilty. Maybe he should have mentioned his injuries to her before this morning, but it was far too late to dwell on that decision. It wasn't enough to put a damper on their reunion though. Cecelia fussed over him, asked several, _pointed_ questions as to the nature of his injuries, then relented with a passionate kiss – which was starting to last quite a while.

They broke apart, and Cecelia smiled her beautiful, classic, even-toothed smile. It was quite possibly her best feature, and it made the ensuing seconds or so of silence between them quite nice. Bruce had spent most of his summer with Cecelia Mayan, so her kiss on the steps of school was not as dramatic a gesture as his girlfriend might have envisioned it being, but Cecelia had spent the last week of summer vacation holidaying in France, so there was _some_ sense of long-awaited reunion.

The sun burnt away the last dregs of wispy clouds, bathing the entrance to Gotham Academy in warmth. In the bright light, Cecelia looked her best, which meant she was absolutely gorgeous, with silky blonde hair, tender brown eyes, and, naturally, that smile. Now, as her hands rested on his chest – one hand fingering his shirt collar – Bruce realised that the last three months (the duration of their relationship) had been really rather nice.

It must have been more than nice, because she was the first girl he'd ever properly invited to the manor as a personal guest.

In one moment, however, Bruce's happy recollections of his summer with Cecelia Mayan were thoroughly shattered.

"I love you, Bruce Wayne," said Cecelia.

Like her kiss, her tone was soft and unassuming, through the very gesture of professing her love after only three months was anything but careful. Time froze as those three little words left her mouth and became real. Bruce's heart began to beat slightly quicker. And not in a good way. He was sure she could feel the change of pace beneath her fingertips.

She loved him.

She _loved_ him.

And now her bright eyes watched him hopefully, waiting for his mouth to stop gaping uselessly and form the three – four - little words she was waiting for in return.

Certainly, he _liked_ Cecelia a great deal. He liked the way she smelled, and he liked the dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled at him. He liked that she was outgoing and was willing to try any and all of the outdoor pursuits Bruce had planned for them during the holidays. He liked that she got on well with with Alfred, and Bruce knew the old butler approved of her (Bruce also knew that Alfred hoped Cecelia would draw him away from his night time plans). He liked that Cecelia never pushed him about his parents and was willing to listen when he did open up and share the odd piece of safe information. He liked that she had tears in her eyes when he took her to visit the graves and squeezed his hand for the entire walk back.

Bruce couldn't imagine _anyone_ more perfect for the boy he _should_ have been.

 _I like_ Cecelia, he thought. _But..._ But she was breaking down his barriers, and Bruce wasn't so sure it was a good thing.

"I . . . can't say it back," Bruce murmured after what seemed like an eternity. Still, the confusion in his eyes had been enough for Cecelia to know what his reply _wouldn't_ be. Cecelia nodded dejectedly. "Cecelia, listen," Bruce continued, feeling like he had to give her _something_ – some explanation. "It's not that I don't – I _do_ care for you a great deal. These last few months have been perfect. _You_ have been perfect." The steps around them were clearing, as the other students made their way through the gates and inside the school. He was thankful for that, because it meant that less people would be here to witness his rejection of his girlfriend's feelings (no matter how he worked it in his mind, he _was_ rejecting her). Bruce didn't even toy with the idea of giving Cecelia the _real_ reason he couldn't say those three damned words to her. She wouldn't understand. Not even Alfred fully understood.

"Are you angry?" he asked, a bit nervously.

"No." The answer came immediately and without hesitation. "No, I'm not angry. And I understand – you've . . . you've been through a lot, and I understand that could make it more difficult for you to make these kind of commitments. . ."

Bruce didn't think that idea had much merit, but did not argue the point. He could love, he was certain he had loved before. He just wasn't at that place with Cecelia yet.

Cecelia moved her hands away from his chest, and the space opened up between the adolescents. "We had better go inside," Cecelia said, brushing off the disappointment rather quickly. Bruce added that to the tally of admirable qualities this girl possessed – she was never bitter.

"I'm sorry," Bruce repeated, as the pair made their way up the steps towards the school.

"Don't think about it," Cecelia ordered affectionately, taking his hand in her own and giving it a squeeze. "I only wanted to tell you how _I_ felt."

Bruce smiled and kissed the top of her head, but the odd trapping of guilt stirred him into silence.

"Are you still coming to the exhibit tomorrow night?" Cecelia asked, clearly eager to move the tone of their conversation past the awkward rejection of her feelings.

 _Oh, right. The exhibit._ Bruce answered quickly, before it become obvious he'd forgotten about that commitment too. "I'll be there," Bruce assured her. "That's if your father will have me there in my current state." He moved his secured arm as broadly as he could, gesturing to his bruised and battered body.

"You're _Bruce Wayne_ ," Cecelia emphasised with a small laugh. "You're welcome at every party, no matter what _state_ you're in."

 _That's probably too true._

 _"_ Besides," Cecelia continued, "you'll add some character to all the black ties and dresses and Native American artifacts. God knows it'll need some." She looked up at him and smiled wickedly. "You know, if it gets too boring, we could maybe sneak off and lose ourselves in the dinosaur exhibit."

Bruce grinned.

The school bell rang briefly, and Cecelia sighed, smile vanishing. "I was hoping we'd have a bit more time to ourselves," she began to say, but the words were barely out of her mouth before a boy rushed up to them and collided with Bruce's injured arm. Hard.

"Oh, sorry," the boy said over his shoulder, without sounding the least bit sorry at all. Then, he stopped dead, as if he finally realised _who_ he had bumped into and _what_ he had interrupted.

"Hello, Roman," Bruce said, wincing as his injured arm reverberated with pain. "How was your summer?"

"Good," the boy named Roman said, shrugging. He looked between Bruce's arm in the sling, the bruises on his face and Cecelia's hand in his, and asked. "Your summer looks like it was more interesting than mine. What happened to you?" Bruce felt Cecelia's fingers grip his a little tighter, and the mischievous look on her face had vanished into cold stone.

Bruce flashed a self-effacing smile. "I crashed my bike a few days ago," he said. "Not terribly interesting."

"He wasn't wearing his helmet," Cecelia added, with a touch of disapproval.

Bruce felt a twang of guilt at the lie, but forced it away before it could show on his face. This was one of those times when the lie was far, far safer than the truth. Cecelia wouldn't understand.

 _And she'll never understand, if you keep holding her at arm's length,_ a small voice said in his head.

"It's not broken, is it?" Roman asked.

"Dislocated."

"That's good." Roman nodded, with a touch of relief in his voice. "Coach will be on the warpath if you're not fit to play."

Bruce snorted. "Don't worry, I'll be fine by the end of the week."

"Good," Roman said. "Anyway, I'm gonna go – class and all that." He winked as he turned away. "Stay chaste you two." Then the boy was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, disappearing into the throng of students crowding into the entrance.

"I don't know what his problem is," Cecelia said after a moment, staring after Roman's back. "He ran straight into you before."

"That? It was an accident."

A sigh escaped Cecelia's lips and she shook her head at him. "Bruce, sometimes you can be the dumbest smart-guy."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind, I'm probably reading too much into it," Cecelia said. She let go of his hands and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "I need to find Annalise before first period. I'll see you at lunch?"

* * *

Roman Sionis

* * *

Roman Sionis was tall. He had black hair, which — much like Roman himself — never seemed willing to cooperate. He was handsome, with sculpted cheek bones, chiselled jaw and a straight nose. He had good skin, good teeth and a charming grin. He played basketball better than nearly everyone he'd ever met, and his walk oozed confidence and the devil-may-care attitude he worked so hard to cultivate. People _liked_ being around Roman Sionis.

Roman Sionis liked to smoke.

He spent most of that morning trying is hardest _not_ to think about Cecelia Mayan – _determined_ not to think about Cecelia Mayan. In the crisp, morning air, he slipped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and thoroughly enjoyed the solitary walk to Gotham Academy.

And for what was probably the first time that summer, he actually _didn't_ think about Cecelia Mayan for an hour or so.

When he arrived at school, he joined the throng of uniformed students on the quad outside the Academy's main building. He made idle chatter with students from his own year, and thoroughly ignored the younger students squirming around them.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw blonde, beautiful Cecelia Mayan wrapped up in Bruce Wayne's multi-billion dollar arms. And he felt something green and nasty stir in his chest.

He strolled over towards them, bumped into Bruce's injured arm, played it off as an accident, exchanged a few pleasant words with the picture-perfect couple, and kept walking.

A small part of him knew that he was being petty about the whole situation, but that didn't change the way seeing those two together made him feel.

Yes, he _knew_ that he was being petty, but hey, he was working on it.

One cigarette at a time.

* * *

The Streets

* * *

The girl was quite pretty. Big blue eyes filled her face, framed by silvery-blonde tresses to her shoulders. Her skin was pale and flawless. Dainty ears. Dainty nose. Dainty lips. She was smiling widely in the photograph, with its pale blue background and perfect lighting.

Girls who looked like her didn't last long on the streets.

Selina couldn't help but wonder how the girl had gotten herself tied up with the penguin.

"Why you after her?" one particularly inquisitive criminal asked her after taking an overly-long look at the photograph. He tried to slip it into his pocket, but Selina snatched it away faster than a blink. The criminal grumbled. "What'd she do?"

Selina shrugged and smoothed the photograph against her stomach. "Dunno. The penguin's the one who wants her. Ask _him_ if you're curious." That was enough to make the man swallow any more questions on his tongue. "So, you'll call me if you see her around?"

"Yeah, sure."

Three days, and not a whisper. If Mickey van Low was nervous then, he must be drowning in sweat now. Penguin was a patient man, but finding this girl seemed rather urgent.

And girls who looked like her never lasted long on the streets.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

The florist was a breath of fresh air among the stink and smog of Gotham city. Selina ignored the prominent "closed" sign hanging on the door and walked inside. A small, brass bell chimed and an old woman with a kindly face stood up from the packed counter at the rear of the shop. Seven workers, all in aprons and wearing gloves looked up from their tasks – bundling flowers together, or carrying them out to the cooling room – to regard Selina curiously. The old woman waved her hand, and the workers quickly went back to their jobs.

"Cat," the old woman said, smiling. She took Selina by the shoulders and pressed her bony cheekbone against Selina's. "Come in, come in! Please ignore all the mess. We've a wedding tomorrow and there's much to do!"

Selina followed the old woman through the maze of flowers, careful not to let a single petal brush her clothes. "Who's getting married?" she asked

"No one you know, dear." The old woman lead Selina out back. A plastic-covered room was separated from the rest of the warehouse, where air-conditioners kept the prepared flowers crisp. Selina had heard that the kindly old lady once left a man tied up naked inside that refrigeration unit for three days. It could be true, Selina supposed. No matter how kind and warm someone was, you never got as deep into the business as the old woman was without a streak of cruelty.

"Now, _I've_ heard that the penguin has his men combing the city for a pretty young girl, and that _you're_ helping him look?" the old woman asked. She posed the question was posed innocently enough.

 _How does she know?_ Selina wondered. _If Penguin's_ _not careful, he'll have Jim Gordon's unit sniffing around too. "_ Yep," she nodded, shrugging. "Just doing him a small favour."

"You be careful, Cat," the kindly old woman said. "Do a favour for a man once, he begins to expect you'll do it for him every time."

"I'll keep that in mind," Selina said.

"Good," the kindly old woman smiled. "Now, do you have anything for me, or is this just a social visit?"

Selina rolled up her sleeve and unhooked a large-faced watch from her wrist. "Swiped this from a guy on the subway – never knew it was missing."

"Magic fingers," the kindly old woman said admiringly, but she hesitated to take the watch. "I'm afraid there's not much of a market for watches nowadays. Only the rich wear watches like this, and they can afford to buy them through legitimate means."

Selina shrugged. "That just means its a safe steal."

The old woman put on a pair of pearl-encrusted glasses to inspect the watch. "The band is gold, low quality. If you're going for watches, you should try for a woman's watch. Diamonds are worth more than gold." She tucked the watch into her apron. "Wait here a moment, dear," she said, before disappearing back into the shop. She returned moments later with a crisp hundred dollar bill in her veiny hand. "Anyone else and I wouldn't take it, but you've been such a good little thief over the years... I can give you a hundred for it – no more."

"A hundred is perfect," Selina said quickly, and took the bill.

The kindly old woman smiled. "But no more watches, dear."

"No more watches," Selina agreed.

"Oh, before I forget," the old woman said abruptly. "A young man came looking for you this morning."

Selina raised her eyebrows. "Who?"

"He didn't give me his name. I don't him I didn't know who you were, but he insisted. Gave me this to give to you if you ever came by." The old woman gave Selina a slip of paper folded into messy squares.

 _Happy hour. Tonight,_ the note read. _Come have a tiki tiki time with me._

Selina frowned and made the note disappear into her pocket.

"You be careful, dear," the old woman said. "Do try to stay out of trouble."

"I always do."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

"Selina Kyle."

The use of her real name made Selina tense uncomfortably. The man who spoke it flashed her a friendly grin before sliding into the seat opposite her. He was good-looking, no matter how much she might detest that admission. His dark eyes always seemed to be full of laughter, and his jaw was as near to perfect as a jaw could get. The beard was new since Selina last saw him, but she thought it suited him well. She imagined running her fingertips through the soft, dark curls before shaking the image away.

"Aiden O'Connor," she replied, raising her chin and brushing aside her unease. _How many people actually know me by my real name now?_

Around them the bar bustled with activity. Bright flowers and tall potted palm trees decorated every corner, adding a splash of colour to what would have been just another dusty bar on the edge of the Narrows. Selina liked the bar's colourful, fruity cocktails served in fake coconut shells with little umbrellas. She also liked the closed off booths, where people like her and Aiden O'Connor could meet for a quiet drink and talk about private things without the risk of twitching ears overhearing.

"You drinking?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer he slid an unopened beer bottle dripping with condensation in front of her.

In the heat, that cold beer was awfully tempting. "Not tonight," Selina replied, pushing it back.

"More for me." Aiden opened one of the bottles and took a long drink. "How've you been?" he said. "Keeping busy?"

"Busy enough."

The man's grin appeared in full force. "I hear you've been a curious little kitty these last few days – looking for lost little girls for small little men."

"Save the cat jokes," she replied haughtily. "They're getting old."

"Sorry," Aiden replied, without sounding the least bit sorry at all. Then, suddenly quite serious: "Whatever you're doing, just make sure you watch your back. The penguin's not someone you wanna get into bed with."

"And you'd rather I'd get into bed with you instead?"

Aiden smirked. "I _do_ have a job for you – if you're interested."

"I'm listening."

"Met with a a client a few weeks ago. He's willing to part with a _huge_ sum of cash if we . . . _acquire_ a certain object for him." Aiden paused and looked expectantly at Selina, as if tempting her curiosity.

"Right," said Selina with false aloofness. It never paid to seem _too_ eager to do anything for anyone. "What's the item?"

Aiden winced at her, and said hesitantly, "This is the part you're not going to like." He delved into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled, folded brochure. Selina eyed it curiously as Aiden smoothed it out and lay it towards her on the table. She resisted the temptation to move forward too quickly. If Aiden was so sure she wouldn't like it, then whatever he wanted to steal _must_ be good.

Then she read the gold-trimmed, white letters and saw the logo dominating the front page.

 _Gotham Museum of Antiquities_.

"No. _No!_ " Selina leaned back, shaking her head. "You're out of your mind!"

"Wait a moment, Selina. Hear me out-" Aiden began.

"That museum is a fortress. They hire _mercenaries_ as security guards, for God's sake. I know of _two_ people who were killed trying to lift something out of that place." She waved two long, slender fingers in Aiden's face. "No one robs that place and comes out a free man."

"I know someone who did."

"Bullshit."

"He didn't manage to snatch his prize, and he came out with a bullet in his shoulder and his balls sucked back inside his body, but he went in and came out _alive_. After a few drinks and some gentle prodding he was very forthcoming about _how._ "

 _It's suicide._ "Sorry, Aiden, but I'm gonna take a hard pass on this one. Find yourself another thief."

Aiden caught her wrist as she got up to leave and held on. "Wait, Cat."

"Let go, Aiden."

"This a two person job. I can't do this on my own."

She jerked her wrist away and scowled at Aiden. "No, you're wrong," she hissed. "It's a three person job, at _least_ – four if you want to get away clean."

But Aiden was persistent. "You're the best thief I know, Cat. I never seen someone move like you do. This job can't be done without you. _I_ can't do this without you." His eyes bore into hers and Selina felt her resolve weakening. "Can you please sit back down?"

 _Don't be an idiot, Selina. Get up and leave._

Silently, she slunk back into her seat and watched Aiden carefully.

"Thank you," Aiden said, smiling.

"Don't thank me," retorted Selina. "I'm just gonna stay and point out all the ways this job is going to blow up in your face."

"That won't happen," said Aiden. "I've got it all figured out. We go in through the sewers-"

"Loving it so far."

"-There's a drain that runs right underneath the museum. You remember the Hanging Gardens of Babylon recreation?"

"Sure, I remember."

"Well the courtyard it's in _floods_ when it rains. It wasn't much of a problem before that exhibit went up, because it was just a picnic area, but when they were planning the exhibit they didn't want all that water ruining everything. So they built a drain and linked it to the sewers."

"So what?" Selina argued. "If it's just a drain it will be too small for anyone to get through."

"That's not true." Aiden grinned. "It might be a bit tight for my shoulders, but _you_ . . . you should fit through nicely."

"And what about after we've forced our way into a building with one of the most sophisticated security systems America has to offer?"

"From the gardens exhibit, we scale up the wall, run across the rooftop and drop down through the skylight in the exhibit hall – well, _you'll_ be dropping down. I'll need to stay on the roof to pull you back up."

 _The man is insane!_ "Let's say I did this," Selina found herself saying. "What's the prize? What's worth all this trouble?"

Aiden grinned, and flipped open the brochure. Selina was expecting him to point that the focus point of the exhibit, but he pointed at a small picture of a ceremonial dagger encrusted with green jewels. It's blade was short and wide, with a rounded tip much like a shovel's blade.

" _That?_ "Selina looked between the photograph and Aiden's boyish grin, eyebrow raised high. "You're kidding. A knife?"

"Yep."

"I don't get it. It's . . . worthless."

"I'd hardly say it's worthless."

"Okay, _maybe_ it's worth _something,_ but you couldn't find a fence in the world who would touch this with all the heat that comes with it."

"That's the beauty of it, Cat. We don't have to find one! We steal the knife, hand it off to the client, _he_ hands _us_ a suitcase full of cash and we live a happy few years full of material wealth."

"Your _client_ is a nutcase – some . . . collector who's got too much time _and_ money on his hands. The one thing that the rich know how to do better than anything is get the poor killed." Selina jabbed her finger at the picture of the knife. "And this – _this_ is not worth the trouble."

"I can think of two-hundred thousand reasons why this is worth the trouble," Aiden replied.

 _Two-hundred thousand?!_ "You serious?"

"Each."

"' _Each?'_ For that piece of crap knife? _"_

"Don't tell me you're not a little bit tempted," Aiden said.

 _Fuck him,_ Selina thought. _He knows me too well._ "All right, let's say we do this — and I'm not saying that I am." She spoke cautiously, and let the sentence hang before continuing. "We're gonna need someone to hack into the museum's mainframe – loop the security feed, turn off the silent alarms, motion sensors. . ."

"I've already been to see Parker – he'll take care of everything from the outside."

"You sure he'll be able to handle the pressure?" The skinny computer nerd was a recent acquaintance. He was always jacked on energy drinks and coffee, and struggled to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Folks said he was reliable, though, and that kind of reputation went a long way.

"He'll be fine," Aiden said dismissively. "I wouldn't have found him, otherwise."

"Hmm," Selina murmured.

"All we'll need to do for him is get hold of the curator's keycard and thumb print."

"How do you plan on getting those?"

"The exhibit has its grand opening tomorrow night. Client can get us on this list – fake names," he added quickly. "We pick the curator's pocket for his wallet, lift his print from a champagne glass and we're golden."

"You don't think he'll notice his missing keycard?"

"Parker has that sorted. He's got something that can copy the data – I don't know how it works, but we can copy the data and have wallet back in his pocket before the sap knows it's gone."

"And the fingerprint?"

"I'll worry about getting the prints, you focus on getting that keycard."

 _He's got an answer for everything, doesn't he?_ Maybe he _had_ thought of everything. "We'll also need a damn good driver if things go badly – which they probably will."

"Got any recommendations?" Aiden asked.

Selina thought for a moment. "Harris?"

"Nah, he got busted by GCPD about three months ago. You didn't hear?"

"No. How?"

"Jewellery store job he ran went wrong. Cops shot out one of his tires before he could make the sewers."

"On purpose?"

"Word is, some rookie cop dropped his gun and it went off." Aiden shrugged. "Of all the rotten luck, right? What about Salter? He still in the business?"

"I saw him the other day with his arm in a cast. He won't be driving anything for a while."

Aiden scratched his beard. "You know, Kira got out of Blackgate a few weeks ago," he said. "She's looking for some quick cash to get out of Gotham. I can't imagine she'd say no."

Silence fell between the two, though with the raucous drinking and laughing the bar was as loud as ever. Selina looked at the picture of the ceremonial knife again and shook her head in disbelief. "You're insane."

Aiden smirked. "So, Selina Kyle. Does this mean you're in?"

"I think I'd like that beer now."

Grinning widely, Aiden pushed the unopened bottle of beer back to Selina. She popped it open and drank thirstily.

"Shit, Aiden," she breathed.

"I know," the man replied, laughing, and clinked his beer bottle against hers.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Authors Note: Huge thanks to melissa8816, Kathemy, Selina, shadychef and Byzinha Lestrange for reviewing!

I feel like something is missing from the heist planning part with Selina. Don't be surprised if that part is tweaked slightly at some stage.

Reviews are like a cold drink on a hot, hot, hot summer's day.


	3. Chapter 3: High Society

Chapter Three

\- High Society -

* * *

Selina leaned close to the bathroom mirror and carefully applied a gentle sweep of mascara to her eyelashes.

 _Hmm, lips could use some gloss, too,_ she thought. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, giving it a wet shine. _Yes, definitely._

When she was finished, she dropped her damp towel to the bathroom floor and steeled herself in front of the plastic dry-cleaner bag hanging from a hook next to the door.

Makeup was okay – she didn't mind a bit of makeup every now and then. She actually liked the way the combination of eyeliner and mascara deepened her eyes' natural curves, and she liked the way her lips glistened when applied with a layer of gloss or lipstick. Selina just didn't like doing it herself. That's where Ivy was a good friend to have. Ivy _liked_ sitting in front of the mirror and applying makeup to herself – what's more, she _liked_ sitting Selina in the chair and transforming her from a dirt-streaked street thief to a "debutante damsel," as Ivy put it.

Selina still wasn't sure what a debutante was, but it sounded boring.

But dresses . . . Selina hated dresses, and the flimsy black number she had borrowed from the dry cleaner did nothing to change her mind.

"Can you hurry it up, Selina?" Aiden called to her through the bathroom door. "Kira's gonna be here in five!"

"Yeah, yeah," Selina replied, and tore the dress from its protective plastic. Careful not to disturb her makeup, she wriggled into the dress and cast a critical eye at the mirror. There was nothing wrong with the dress, but Selina didn't like the way it left her shoulders bare aside from the two flimsy straps holding it up. At least with the hem loose and around her knees she would be able to move around quickly if needed.

"Come on, Selina!" Aiden sounded impatient.

Plastering her best scowl over her face, Selina unlocked the bathroom door and slipped outside. "You really need to learn how to talk to a girl," she admonished. She braced herself for Aiden's inevitable retort, but nothing came. The older man had shaved his beard away, leaving his strong jawline free for admiration. He was already dressed in a black tuxedo – borrowed from the same dry cleaner who had given Selina her dress. A smile broke across Aiden's face.

Selina crossed her arms beneath her breasts and shifted her foot self-consciously.

"I think you should wear dresses more often," Aiden said. He half-turned and tapped a skinny man with wild brown hair on the shoulder. The man looked away from his computer screen and jerked around in surprise.

"Hey, Parker," Selina said, smiling and nodding.

"Oh, hullo, Cat," the skinny man replied, rising quickly. "Aiden said you were working this job with us. It's a good thing – we need someone with your . . . talent."

"Thanks," Selina said, eyeing Parker's shaking hands. "You look a little nervous."

"He's always nervous," Aiden whispered in her ear as he walked by her and disappeared into the bathroom. "You could have hung up your towel, Selina!"

"Gotham Museum of Antiquities," Parker grumbled with a bewildered shake of his head, like he couldn't believe what they were _actually_ planning to do. "It's never been done before."

"That's not true," Aiden said. "Guy named Frank Delvito got away clean in the 80's."

"But he got _busted_ trying to fence his prize," Selina added.

"Still got out clean."

"That was over forty years ago?" Parker said. "The museum's beefed up its security since then. I'm not nervous about tonight, though, tonight's the easy part – unless you get caught with your fingers in the mark's pockets, Cat."

"I don't get caught," replied Selina.

"Your _colourful_ arrest record disagrees."

Selina heard Aiden snort with laughter from inside the bathroom. "He won't even know his wallet's gone," she said firmly. Resolutely.

"Speaking of," Aiden said. "Bring Cat up to date before we lose her to boredom."

Parker turned back to his computer and pulled up a picture of a man with a rapidly receding hairline. "If we want this plan of ours to have the smallest chance of succeeding, we need Paul Mayan's thumb print and the data from his keycard. This is him, remember the face."

Selina had already logged the man's face away.

"Getting the print is as easy as swiping his champagne glass," Aiden said. "The key card is the tricky part."

"He'll notice it missing," Selina filled in the blank.

"That's right," Aiden said. "Luckily, Parker has a solution."

"The physical card is worthless – the museum buys them in bulk," Parker said. "We want the _data_ from the card so we can make our own."

"So I'll distract Mayan, you pilfer his wallet, we find a quiet corner to copy the data from the card. After that, we return the wallet and waltz out with none the wiser."

Parker tossed her a device no larger than a smartphone. Selina caught it easily in two hands. "Insert the card in that and it will copy the data for you," Parker said. "The transfer shouldn't take longer than a minute or two, but you should probably find a bathroom cubicle to do it in."

"Right," Selina said, and gave the device to Aiden, who had emerged from the bathroom. His hair was parted fashionably along a seam and glistened with wax.

"Ready to go," Aiden said.

"Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

His bruises had faded into a murky mix of purple and green smudges around his right eye and the long cut stretching from his eyebrow to hairline. The cut looked a _lot_ better than it had, but Alfred said it would still need a few more days before he could take the stitches out.

"It will certainly scar," the old butler had told him blithely when asked. "May it be a cautionary tale of what happens when you bite off more than you can chew, aye."

Bruce didn't care much about a scar, but he was well aware it didn't contribute to the image the heir to Wayne Enterprises _should_ have been cultivating... With a grimace, Bruce stretched out a flesh coloured bandage and covered the ugly stitches as best he could.

"Very smart, Master Bruce," Alfred said when Bruce emerged from the bathroom and walked into the study. He examined the tuxedo critically. "When was the last time you wore that thing?"

Bruce had to think for a moment. "It was . . . the New Years party, I think."

"That sounds about right," Alfred said. "You've broadened up since then. All that time you spent climbing cliffs with Miss Mayan did you some good."

Bruce supposed his vigorous exercise routines and martial training had something to do with it too – certainly more than a few hours rock-climbing with Cecelia. And that meant . . . Alfred was trying to work her into the conversation. _Why?_

"How's the fit around your shoulders?" Alfred asked.

"A bit tight," admitted Bruce

"I'll take it down the the tailor tomorrow, see if he can't loosen it out a bit. The pant legs look a bit short too. We'll probably have to let the hem too.

"It's all right, you don't have to."

"You can't go around wearing clothes that don't fit you," Alfred said. "You've an image to maintain."

"I don't think people are going to be looking at my clothes tonight," Bruce said.

"No, I suppose not," Alfred agreed. "Still feeling much pain?"

"A little," Bruce admitted.

"You'll still be sore for a while yet," Alfred said, "but I don't expect you'll let it get in your way."

Bruce cracked a small grin. "I'll need some help with the bow tie, I think."

"Tricky buggers, even without a useless arm," Alfred said, taking the length of black fabric from Bruce. "Right, chin up then." Alfred looped the tie around Bruce's neck. "Am I taking you to collect Miss Mayan, then, or are you meeting her there."

 _And again._

"Meeting her there. She's going with her parents."

"Can I say, Master Bruce. I'm glad you and Miss Mayan have been spending so much time together this summer. It's been a long time since I've seen you so happy for so long."

Bruce made a non-committal sound, before wincing at the mistake.

"Is everything all right, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, standing back.

"Of course," replied Bruce, maybe a bit too quickly. "Why wouldn't they be?"

"Oh, I dunno, you've been right quiet ever since you got home from school yesterday. Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened."

"Don't you lie to me." Alfred could always tell, no matter how hard Bruce tried to hide something. "You're not planning on skipping out on Miss Mayan's party to go play hero again, are you? You'll get yourself killed!"

"No. _No_! I'm not going to skip the party," Bruce stressed with a heavy sigh. There really was no point in trying to hide it. _Is it even worth hiding?_ "It's Cecelia. She . . ."

"She what? Did she call things off?"

"No, we're still together."

"You got her pregnant?"

"No!" Bruce sighed heavily. "She . . . told me she loved me yesterday."

"Ah . . . right," Alfred said, followed by a quiet pause. Whatever he had been expecting Bruce to say, it clearly wasn't that. "And what did you say to her?"

"I didn't say it back."

"And she didn't drop you on the spot?" Alfred's eyebrows rose in surprise. "That's some girl you've got there."

"I know," Bruce mumbled.

"I take it this is the reason why you've been so bloody melancholy."

"I haven't been _melancholy_ ," Bruce protested.

"You've been walking about like the world's weighing on your shoulders and you're the only one trying to hold it up. It's bloody depressing."

 _Maybe Alfred's right,_ Bruce thought. _Maybe I have been a little melancholy lately._ "It took me by surprise," Bruce said. "I didn't want to lie to her."

"Aside from the dislocated shoulder, that gash above your eye and all the bruises, aye?"

"That's different, Alfred." Bruce touched the bandage covering his cut. "What should I do?"

"I knew a girl – long time ago now – who believed that loving someone was a choice you made. What you feel when you love someone is just a concoction of other emotions, she said, true love is _choosing_ to love someone and accept them as they are. To be honest, I didn't think much of that, at first, but . . . now I would say she was wise beyond her years."

"A choice?" Bruce considered that.

"That's right. That girl has made a commitment to you, and that's no small thing. What _you_ have to consider is if you feel the same way. If you don't, and you know you never will, then you need to do her a favour and tell her. _Sooner_ , rather than later, Master Bruce."

"What if I don't know how I feel?"

"Then you best figure it out, because Miss Mayan deserves better than your indecision."

Sometimes Bruce _really_ hated it when Alfred was right.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

The extravagance of Gotham's high society never failed to astound Selina. The room was full of expensive jewellery, packed wallets and designer wristwatches – fifteen minutes of mingling in this place would get her enough cash to live comfortably for at least a month or two (after the fence took the lion's share of the profit, of course). It was a shame she needed to be good tonight (mostly good), or risk blowing the whole game for a fistful of dollars and pearls.

Wrenching her eyes away from a loose bracelet glittering diamonds, staring at her like low hanging fruit, Selina tried to focus on the museum she would soon be breaking into. It's ceiling's were domed and trimmed with the gold etchings of a style popular decades ago when this place was first built. The city had modernised most of the other display rooms and exhibits, but this one was a token of the past. Looking up, Cecelia glanced at the sunroof – now back glittering with a star or two and tried to judge how high up it was. _Doesn't matter,_ she thought. _I'd break my legs trying to jump down from there._

 _"_ I thought there would be more dancing," Aiden said in a low voice.

"It's not a charity ball," Selina replied. "They don't _dance_ at exhibit openings. All they do is eat and drink and talk about how rich they are."

Aiden laughed. "Do much mingling with Gotham's elite?"

"Enough to know I don't fit in," Selina said.

"You'll have to tell me about it one day."

"There's not much to tell," Selina said with a shrug. "I used to sneak into events like this to work. It was like Christmas."

"Did Santa get you anything good?"

"Nothing that stands out," Selina replied.

But Aiden had stopped listening. "There he is," Aiden said, eyes trained on the tall, balding man from the photograph Parker had shown Selina back at the loft. "Do you see him?"

A quick glance to her right brought Paul Mayan into her sight. He was talking to a small group of Gotham's high society in front of the recreational model of an Aztec temple which dominated the middle of the exhibit. Selina had inspected it when she and Aiden had arrived, and concluded that she could probably wriggle inside one of the entrances if pressed. "Yeah, I see him."

"You know what to do?"

Selina rolled her eyes and wandered towards a small glass case behind Mayan. She stopped at the length of velvet rope around the case and pursed her lips together.

"Mr Mayan," she heard Aiden's voice over the chorus of other voices in the echoey hall, and looked at him through the corner of her eyes. "This is quite the collection you've amassed. I'm glad I was afforded the opportunity to see it tonight."

"Thank you, young man," Mayan said, shaking Aiden's hand.

"Matthew Greene," Aiden offered.

"Matthew Greene." Mayan tasted the name. "I remember your name from the guest list. You're. . ."

"Mr O'Neill's representative, yes."

 _Mr O'Neill?_ Selina wondered if that name was fake too. Aiden had been surprisingly tight-lipped about the identity of his client. _It must be fake._

"Mr O'Neill is very interested in contributing to this museum," Aiden said. "I dare-say you'll find yourself with many donations and even more contributes after tonight. You never know how many private collections have pieces just waiting to be seen."

"Thank you." Mayan sounded sincere. "This has never been about donations, or money for that matter. I'm a student of history, and I want to share that passion. That's why I do all of this."

"Admirable," Aiden replied. How Aiden managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, Selina couldn't tell. She narrowed her eyes in a soft frown as she watched Aiden wipe his fingers against his pocket.

 _Not even in his inner pocket?_ Selina thought. _This is gonna be too easy._ She stopped paying attention to Aiden's polite conversation with Mayan and sauntered beside the length of velvet rope leading right towards Mayan and his bulged pocket.

And then she saw something – _someone_ \- that made her leg freeze mid-step and eyes widen with surprise.

 _Bruce Wayne?_ The name bounced around her head, stunning her and making her forget herself and where she was and what she needed to do.

The billionaire looked so different to the scrawny boy with toothpick limbs she remembered. He had grown taller, _walked_ taller with the easy, relaxed confidence of someone who would have been just as comfortable here as he would anywhere else, and whoever he might see there was lucky he came at all. Something had happened to him though, his left arm was secured in a navy blue sling, and his face was a painter's pallet of half-healed bruises. She would recognise those eyes and high cheekbones anywhere. _But why does it have to be here! Tonight, of all fucking nights!_

And then, another thought, more desperate and urgent than the first: _He can't see me. I can't let him see me._

Then why did a screaming part of her want him to look this way.

Why did she want his gentle, dark blue eyes to meet hers from across the room. The game would truly be up then. He wouldn't be able to help himself, he would cross the room and in front of everyone blow her cover. _He'd be so bloody oblivious about it too._

 _I can't let him see me._

Aiden was still smiling and exchanging pleasant conversation with Mayan, but there was something in the way he kept his eyes so firmly on Mayan's that told Selina he had noticed her hesitation and wasn't happy.

Forcing Bruce firmly out of her mind, Selina pretended to stumble (though in these heels, it was a wonder she hadn't stumbled for real), and grabbed Mr Mayan's arm for support. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she deliberately pitched her voice an octave higher and made her voice sound as flustered as she could. Her other hand reached into Mayan's pocket and pulled out his black wallet. The pass off to Aiden happened just as quickly, as Mayan half-turned to help steady Selina.

 _Sap._

"Are you all right, dear," Mayan asked, sounding genuinely concerned. He kept his hands on her shoulders until she was standing properly again, before letting her go.

"Yes, thank you." A pained glimmer appeared on her face, and she lifted her leg to rub her ankle. "Sometimes I hate high heels," she said, with a self-effacing smile.

"As does my wife," Mayan said. "Come, you should sit down."

"Thank you," Selina said, accepting Mayan's arm. He took her to one of the many plump chairs placed alongside the wall and helped her sit down. Pretending to limp in heels was harder than walking normally.

"I can send a man for an ice pack," Mayan said. "You don't want that ankle to swell."

"I don't think it's bad enough for an ice pack." _How long is this guy gonna float around? Maybe if I mention all his guests he'll feel the need to mingle again._ "I'm sorry for dragging you away from the party."

Mayan waved his hand as if it really was no bother to him. "It's no trouble."

"But all your guests. . ."

"You are also my guest, Miss..."

 _Shit, what was the name?_ "Huxley . . . Katrina Huxley."

"Miss Huxley . . . what kind of host would I be if I didn't see to the needs of _all_ of my guests. Now, are you sure you don't want an ice pack?"

Selina pretended to consider the offer again. She shrugged her slim shoulders and smiled. "Maybe I should."

"Wise idea," Mayan said. "I'll be back with one shortly."

Selina watched Mayan until his back had disappeared into the crowd, before standing and shuffling towards Aiden. The dark-haired thief grinned at her and gave her a hint of a low, extravagant bow. "That was a _great_ take," he said admiringly. "I barely saw it, and I was _watching_ for it."

"What? You forget why you wanted me?"

"Never," Aiden said.

"Give it to me," Selina said, digging through Aiden's pockets until she had both the wallet and Parker's little card-copying device stowed away inside her clutch purse. "You go get his thumb print. I'm sick of being here."

"You're being weird," Aiden said, eyebrows high.

"Whatever."

Aiden frowned at her and half-raised his hand as she scurried away.

Bruce had barely moved since she first spotted him. He and a pretty young blonde in a simple black dress were talking closely by one of the displays. Selina ducked her head and purposely looked away until she reached the entrance to the bathrooms. Only then did she risk another peek.

 _Bruce fucking Wayne._

 _How long has it been?_ Selina wondered. _Years, probably._ She couldn't remember the last time she had even _seen_ her old friend (for that was what he was), much less _spoken_ to him. She tore her eyes away from Bruce and disappeared into the crisp, white porcelain bathroom. Locking herself in one of the cubicles, she went through Mayan's wallet and pulled out a white card with the museum's logo printed on it. _This must be it._

While Parker's device went to work, Selina went back to Mayan's wallet and looked at a photo of a very pretty blonde girl maybe a year or so younger than her. _Gotta be his daughter._ The girl reminded her of another young blonde she had to track down before some powerful people got too impatient.

When Parker's device finished copying the data, Selina replaced the card and the photograph back inside the wallet and left the bathroom.

Aiden was waiting for her outside, twisting an empty champagne glass by the stem. "Print's secure," he said.

"You sure its his?" Selina asked.

"Sure as sunrise," Aiden replied, he placed the glass carefully inside Selina's clutch bag, and pocketed Mayan's wallet. "Everything all right, Cat?"

"Yeah, fine," she said. She cast her eyes around the room for Bruce and Mayan's daughter, but couldn't spot either of them.

"You seem nervous."

"I'm _fine._ We've got what we came for, let's just go."

"What's the rush?" Aiden protested. "Let's relax for a while – drink some champagne – I think I saw some shrimp, somewhere."

"Stay if you want, I'm leaving." She took a step away, but Aiden grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"You're freaking out," he said firmly, voice calm. "You need to relax, Selina, or you're going to get noticed."

 _Noticed._ For a thief, being noticed was just a step away from being caught. Selina looked up into Aiden's eyes and breathed tightly through her nose. "I _am_ relaxed, Aiden," she said. "But you gotta trust me. We need to go."

Aiden held her gaze for a moment longer, and nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's go."

"The wallet?"

"Easy." Aiden offered her his arm. It took Selina a moment to put on the face of the airy debutante girl again, but when she did she took Aiden's arm and let him lead her out of the exhibit hall. Music and the dull hubbub of voices followed them down the stairs and into the entrance hall.

"Have a good night," the security guard said said to them from the front desk..

"Will do," Aiden replied with one of his cheeky grins, and Selina raised a hand in goodbye. When they were almost out the door Aiden spun around, as if a sudden thought occurred to him, and lead them towards the front desk. "I found this in the bathroom," he said, slapping Mayan's wallet on the front desk. "Can you see that it's owner gets it back?"

The security guard flipped open the wallet and arched an eyebrow in surprise. "This is Mr Mayan's wallet."

"Yeah," Aiden nodded conversationally. "I couldn't find him upstairs."

"I'll see that he gets this," the security guard said, tucking the wallet away in a hidden draw. "Thank you for returning it."

"No worries." Aiden gave the security guard a lazy salute and spun Selina around again. Selina giggled, leaning in to him until they were out the front door and well away from the museum.

 _Trust Bruce Wayne to ruin an evening for me._

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Hours later, at 2:27am, to be precise, Selina's phone buzzed beside her head, jerking her awake. Aside from the flashing phone light, Aiden's loft was pitch black. She could hear Aiden snoring from the bed on the other side of the room. Blinking away sleep, Selina stared at the caller for a moment before her vision cleared and she read the name.

 _Caller unknown._

 _I should let it ring out._

Holding the phone to her ear, Selina said, "What?"

"That's not a very gracious way to say hello." The voice, so calm, caressed Selina with its silky touch.

Her heartbeat quickened in her throat.


	4. Chapter 4: Penguins and Sharks

Chapter Four

\- Penguins and Sharks -

or

\- Selina Kyle's Guide to Tightrope Walking -

* * *

"That wasn't a very gracious hello," Victor Zsasz said. Selina could almost imagine the man's hairless eyebrows raising in question of the perceived rudeness. He was a man who liked manners, which only made him more unnerving in Selina's mind.

For a few seconds her mind was blank. The sudden surge of anxiety rippled through her. Zsasz. _Victor Zsasz_ was calling _her_. The man didn't call _anyone_. He just showed up out of nowhere and made you feel like you needed a good scrub down in the shower.

"Are you there, Kitty?"

"What do you want?" Selina whispered, with a careful glance across the apartment to where Aiden snored on the bed.

"What, no foreplay tonight?" Zsasz replied with more than a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're always so good at that."

" _What do you want_?" Selina repeated. At least her voice had a slice of confidence in it this time.

Zsasz's sigh crackled through the phone. "We got a hit on the girl. Penguin wants to bring you up to speed."

"It's the middle of the night!" Selina protested. "Can't this wait till morning?"

"Not this time. Be at Van Low's in thirty minutes. I'm sure you remember how to get there." he was quiet for a moment, but Selina could almost imagine his smirk. "If you're quick you might even see some of the fun." Then he hung up, and an unnatural chill swept through Selina's body.

 _I should hide away until this all blows over_ , a small voice in her head whispered. _Finding the girl, the museum job . . . there's not enough money in the world that's worth my skin..._

Rising gingerly from the sofa, Selina felt around for her jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. She still wore the black dress from the party – although it looked a little less slinky and more sleep-ruffled now. She left her normal clothes by the table somewhere – surely she could grab them and get changed without Aiden waking up. She listened again for Aiden's soft snores, and her heart sank at the silence.

Aiden's voice broke the quiet. "You're leaving?" he asked, voice groggy from sleep.

"Yeah..." Selina replied, abandoning her efforts to be silent. She looked for her clothes with renewed vigor, and found them lying in a pile inside the bathroom. "Ivy rang. She's stuck at some trash apartment with some guy. She needs me to come get her."

"Right..." There was something in Aiden's tone. She wasn't sure how much of the phone call he heard, but she didn't care . . . as long as he didn't decide to question his lie. It really wasn't any of his business anyway. "Do you want me to come with you? I can play a very convincing angry boyfriend when I need to."

Selina smiled, despite herself. _I wonder if you'd be so brave if you knew where I was really going...?_ "No, it's ok," she replied. Then, with a more-than-mischievous flair, she added, "I can play a very convincing angry girlfriend."

Aiden's throaty chuckle made her toes curl with warmth. She heard him push aside his blankets and pad across the loft to meet her. "I'd like to see that one day."

"You wish, buddy."

Aiden grinned wickedly. "What will the neighbours think if they see you sneaking out of my apartment in the middle of the night?"

"In this dress – definitely a hooker." The city lights shone so perfectly on Aiden then. Selina drank in his smile – which was probably the man's best feature, and reached up to trace his jawline with his fingertips. His dark eyes took her in – complete with the spark of mischief she found so enticing. Leaning forward, Selina hooked her fingers behind Aiden's head and crashed her lips against his. The kiss was hard and passionate and much too short. When Selina leaned back, the look on Aiden's face was priceless.

"What was that?" Aiden asked, breathing heavily. "Not that I'm..." Shaking the rest of his sentence away, Aiden tried to slip his hands around her hips, but Selina slipped away before he could hold her.

"I'm gonna keep this dress," she told him.

"I'll let the dry cleaner know you liked his pick," Aiden replied dryly. He still sounded short of breath. He didn't try to come after her, which surprised Selina. Aiden wasn't the kind of person who gave up after only having a little taste.

 _What are you thinking? Do you want the man to follow you?_

Aiden sighed ruefully. _"_ We've still got a few days before we can move on the museum. I know _Ivy_ can be a handful, but try to keep your calendar clear until then, okay?"

"I'll do my best. You know how much I love the quiet life." Then with a bright, mischievous smile, she slipped through the front door.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Penguin's shiny black car looked oddly out of place in the trash-logged gutters and graffiti-covered dirty walls of the Narrows. Butch Gilzean leaned against the vehicle, emanating both casualness and boredom. He wasn't the only one waiting outside. A handful more of Penguin's goon squad waited outside the pub, smoking cigarettes and generally trying to seem larger than they really were.

Selina breathed deeply through her nose, straightened her back and walked through the small army of toughs like she wasn't the least bit nervous or afraid at all. It was the kind of walk she had perfected a long time ago – a loose—limbed saunter that made it seemed like she was only here because she wanted to be. They all looked at her as she swaggered by, but no one said anything to her or tried to get in her way. They all must have known why she was there. She tried to pretend that it was her own reputation for dirty fighting that kept them back; not the strenuous protection working for the Penguin offered.

Butch caught her eye as she approached and mustered a small smile. "Cat," he grunted.

"Butch," Selina grinned back at him. Out of all of Penguin's crew, she liked Butch the most. He almost reminded her of a jolly uncle. Almost.

"You'd better hurry on inside." Gilzean jerked his thick head towards the entrance to Van Low's. "Boss's in a foul mood tonight. Be on your toes."

"Why, Butch, was that a warning?" Selina widened her eyes in mock surprise. "You really do care!"

Butch snorted, then immediately eyed her suspiciously as Selina sidled up beside him. Selina held up her hands and widened the distance between them. " _I_ wouldn't keep him waiting," Butch said.

"All right, all right," Selina said. "I'm _going_." She shot Butch her cheekiest grin and flounced up the steps to Van Low's bar. The bright blue light from Van Low's tacky neon sign shone down on her, buzzing with electricity. The bar was too quiet for this time of night. Most bars in the Narrows didn't close until dawn. She passed three others on her way here filled with people wasting their night away with alcohol and other vices. Van Low's bar may have been quiet, but it was far from empty.

Glass crunched under Selina's shoes, and dark, _wet_ smears stained a grim trail on the polished wooden floors. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes darting along the trail with morbid curiosity.

A bloody mess of a body twitched on the floor between two more of Penguin's men. His face looked more like a swollen, rotted grapefruit than a person. She would have bet her share of money from Aiden's museum job that it was one of Mickey's men dying there.

Neither of the men watching over the body said anything to Selina. They just glanced at her, then satisfied she wasn't a threat, went back to what they were doing. One of them raised his foot. Selina turned away before the blow fell, but she couldn't block out them meaty thump or the pain-stricken moan.

Her mouth felt too dry, and her well-developed instinct for self-preservation screamed at her to turn around and march right back out the door. She couldn't say what kept her moving through the bar and down the narrow flight of stairs to Mickey's storeroom. Maybe it was the was the knowledge that Penguin would have her killed if she did. The man didn't suffer being betrayed very well.

A single light near the back of the basement cast long shadows through the boxes of alcohol onto the walls and roof. She saw the silhouette of a narrow cane rise high, then come crashing down. A painful grunt followed. Swallowing – which was hard enough with her mouth so dry – Selina moved her way through the room until she stood in the light.

She saw Penguin first, standing over a man slumped over a stool – head hanging uselessly on his chest. A manic spark danced across Penguin's dark eyes. When he whirled around to look at her she almost took a step back.

"Cat!" he announced with a wide smile. Tired lines pinched the corners of his eyes and tightened his mouth to a sever line. "So glad you could come." He sidled closer to her and said conversationally, "I'm sorry if the call woke you, but business rests for no one – you understand?"

Selina nodded tightly.

The man on the stool coughed, the action jerking him back into wakefulness. Blood dribbled down his chin as he lifted his head to look at Selina and Penguin. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and the other was heading that way.

"Perfect timing!" Penguin gestured grandly and lifted the man's chin with the end of his cane. "Do you know who this is?" He jerked his head at Selina.

The man's good eye moved towards her and his tongue flicked out to lick his split lips. "The Cat," he grunted.

"Now tell her what you told me." Penguin raised his cane when the man didn't answer. "TELL HER!"

"The kid," the man started quickly to stave off Penguin's blow. "The one who broke in an' attacked us the other night. Mickey told us to kill him an' toss him in the harbour..."

"This is where the story gets good," Penguin confided to Selina. Then to the man: "Go on."

"Me an' Rod . . . we dragged him to the harbour, but he rolled into the water before we could kill him – he wen' under. He didn't come back up – I swear he didn' come back up!" The last came out in a wail – fueled by the desire to convince her and Penguin that he was telling the truth.

Selina felt sick to her stomach, but she kept her face smooth. With the man's story in her head, she fit the rest of the pieces in smoothly. _Oh, Mickey_ , she thought grimly. _You idiot._

 _"_ They all lied to me," Penguin said, all trace of good-natured humour vanished. "They told me they had the boy killed and tossed him into the sea. Not only did they not think to capture him – they were foolish enough to let him escape. Now there is some _kid_ out there who knows about the girl – _knows_ that she's out hiding out there somewhere!" Raising his cane high he brought it down heavily on the man's head. Blood splattered across the wall and floor. The man didn't move again.

Selina really did step backwards this time. She couldn't have kept the horror from her face even if she had been trying to. She always knew Penguin was unhinged, but...

"Don't you move another step!" Penguin ordered, clutching at her sleeve with strength his skinny fingers shouldn't have had. "Someone else is out there looking for her." There was only one _her_ he could have possibly meant. "I need her found. I _need her found!"_

Not for the first time Selina found herself wondering why Penguin wanted this girl so badly. But she was sure Penguin had told her everything he was going to. Another thought hit her. _Mickey van Low knows. I wonder what Penguin's done to him._ Considering the state of Mickey's men upstairs and in front of her, Selina suspected Mickey had fared no better. "This . . . boy. They one who rescued the girl. Maybe . . . maybe he drowned? Mickey's men beat him up pretty badly, right?"

"I'll believe he's dead when I see a body in front of me."

A little door swung open behind Selina. She looked over her shoulder and saw the dark inside of a little bedroom before the man filled the doorway. Zsasz had his sleeve rolled to the elbow, and held a kitchen knife to his flesh. Dark blood dripped down his arm.

"Van Low insisted he didn't know his boys let the kid escape," Zsasz told Penguin, without even a spare look for Selina. "I think he was telling the truth."

"It's no matter." Penguin waved his hand dismissively. The manic look in his eyes still glittered – Selina wasn't fooled by his tone. "Van Low was a liability we could no longer afford."

"He did manage to bumble out a description of the kid," Zsasz said. "Dark haired, handsome – broken nose now, maybe a broken arm too. Said he had a 'rich blood' air about him. Looked down his nose at Mickey like he was some kind of cockroach."

"What do you make of it?" Penguin asked, and Zsasz shrugged.

"It's not a very specific description. I could name five guys who look the same who carry themselves around like they shit on a solid gold toilet. But none of them are young. Van Low said the kid couldn't have been older than eighteen."

Selina could almost feel the blood drain from her face. Rich blood with dark hair, recently beat up with a broken arm? She'd seen someone last night who matched that description almost perfectly. _It can't be_ , Selina thought. _He's not that big of an idiot._ But then it would be just like him to stumble in on something like this without any clue.

"Put the word out," Penguin said. "Fifty-thousand dollars for the one who brings me the kid – _alive_." He turned to Selina. If he noticed her face he gave no sign. "Find the girl, Cat. If she tells anyone what she knows before she's in front of me then your life will be as forfeit as Mickey Van Low's.

Selina nodded. If her face was pale before it was nothing to how white it was now.

"Go, then," Penguin said, releasing her. Selina took one hesitant step back, then another, then she was stumbling through basement towards the stairs. All thoughts of composing herself was forgotten.

"Clean this up," she head Penguin order Zsasz. "I want this place a burning heap by morning. Nothing comes back to me."

Selina didn't hear Zsasz's reply. She was running as soon as she hit the top of the stairs.

 _What the fuck have you gotten me into Bruce?_

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Bruce knelt in the shadows of Van Low's pub, studying the scene in front of him with renewed interest. He certainly hadn't expected there to be so much activity around the premises tonight. The gang of street toughs was interesting enough, but then he'd seen someone come tearing out of the pub without so much as an explanation as to why when the large man standing by the black convertible outside the bar grabbed her arm.

Bruce was sure it had been a girl from the brief look he got of her figure. Whatever was inside had scared her – Bruce wondered what.

A gunshot rattled the pub's windows, followed by glass shattering from inside. Bruce pressed himself against the wall, breath catching in his throat.

A man emerged from inside the bar. He was pale – a fact only emphasised by his fine black suit and tie – and not a single hair grew on his head. Beady black eyes surveyed the street, seemingly seeing everything. Bruce knew that shark-like face.

 _Victor Zsasz_.

Wanted for murder, assault, arson, and a multitude of other crimes just as heinous. The police reports all finished with the same note: known to be in the employ of Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

Bruce shivered – though he couldn't say whether it was from fear or excitement. If Victor Zsasz was here that surely meant the Penguin was too. That was almost worth a snort of laughter. He'd come here to find out who was flooding dirty money through Mickey's pub, and now the answer literally walked out the front door.

"You might have pushed her too far this time," the big man by the car said to someone Bruce couldn't see.

"She needed the reminder," the unseen man replied. Bruce recognised the voice. Inching forward, Bruce risked another peek around the corner. The man who spoke descended the steps towards the car. He was shorter than both Zsasz and the other man, but somehow seemed to walk taller than either of them. Black hair shining with wax stuck up at the back, but was smoothed neatly down his forehead. Penguin.

"Just don't be surprised if she goes to ground." The big man shrugged. "That's all I'm saying."

"Your concern is noted, Gilzean." Penguin sneered at him. "I didn't know you cared for the girl."

"She's got potential," Gilzean replied. He ignored Penguin's sneer. "Best thief I've seen in years."

Penguin's reply was muffled as he climbed into the back seat of the car. Gilzean pushed the door closed behind him and walked over to the driver's side. Frowning, Bruce slithered back, disappearing into the shadows. He had to take his chance now . . . by sun up the harbour would be swarming with people and he intended to be long gone by then.

He'd picked his entry point the other night – before he threw his plans out the window to rescue the girl Van Low had kidnapped. The window Bruce had in mind was around the back of the building. It was small, barely wide enough for someone to squeeze through, and sat low on the wall, almost to the ground.

Laying down on his belly, Bruce cracked the window open and peered inside. A dirty, unmade bed lay in one corner, illuminated by the fain blue static from a wide-screen television. A single armchair sat dead-centre in the middle of the bedroom. A man's tattooed arm dropped over one of the arm rests towards the floor. He wasn't moving.

Back down the street Bruce heard Penguin's car race away. He peered back down the street, but aside from the sound of the fading car the night was silent. He grunted silently and thrust his arms and shoulders through the window. The smell from inside immediately assaulted his nose, stinking strongly of spilt alcohol and vomit. When he was through the window he dropped to the ground to the crunch of glass beneath his shoes.

Slowly, Bruce crept towards the armchair and looked down at Mickey van Low's sunken in face. White foam bubbles stained Mickey's lips and trickles of vomit slid down his chin.

 _Dead..._

Bruce turned away, stomach rolling. Mickey's face had been handsome once, but looking down at it now Bruce would never have known. His eyes drifted towards a little side-table beside the armchair. A range of drug paraphernalia lay on the table – all recently used.

On the service it all looked like an accidental overdose, but nothing was ever so simple when the Penguin was involved. Bruce was sure this was murder. The thought sickened him.

Fresh bruises stained Mickey's throat and wrists, and his torso covered in them. Fresh and old mingling together in a paining of purples, reds and greens. Bruce thought he was the one responsible for a particularly large green one under Mickey's ribs; he'd kicked him fairly hard during the struggle the other night.

Then he noticed the blood around Mickey's fingernails and how they had been half-torn away from his fingers.

 _They tortured him first_ , he thought grimly. _I wonder what about..._

"Sorry, Mickey," he muttered. The dead man's sightless eyes stared back at him.

Grimacing, he patted down Mickey's pockets, looking for a cell phone, or anything at all that could answer some of his questions. But Mickey's pockets were empty, and Mickey's personal computer lay in a mangled mess on the ground, the hard-drive crushed beyond recognition and doused in alcohol.

 _Nothing's here..._

For a moment he listened at the door leading deeper into the basement. Maybe he'd find something there, but if the rest of the bar was in the same shape as the bedroom... He wasn't expecting much.

Gently, he opened the door and peered out into the basement. Flickering orange light drew his gaze. It grew rapidly, soaking the basement. Then Bruce felt the heat, and saw the trail of naked flame moving rapidly down the trail of split alcohol.

 _Shit!_

He moved quickly, faster then he ever thought he had moved before, darting back into the bedroom and launching himself at the little window he had climbed through. He could feel the fire on his boots, and a sudden sickly smell told him it had reached Mickey's body. With a wheezed cough, he pulled himself through the narrow window and back out into the night.

He lay there for a second or two, breathing heavily. _Stupid, Bruce_ , he berated himself. _You should have checked. You should have made sure no one else was around. Alfred wouldn't have made that mistake._

And then Bruce realised he wasn't alone.

For a few seconds Bruce and Victor Zsasz stared at each other. It was hard to say who was more surprised by the other's sudden appearance. Then Zsasz's body visibly relaxed and he regarded Bruce with an air of curiosity. Bruce wasn't fooled. Zsasz still looked ready to do sudden violence – slouch or no slouch.

"You must be the kid Mr Van Low told me so much about," Zsasz said. He grinned, and Bruce was reminded of a shark circling his prey. "That was quite the disappearing act you pulled the other night. It certainly had Mr Penguin in a tizzy."

Bruce didn't say anything, just watched Zsasz warily. Time seemed to slow as Zsasz spoke. Bruce considered his options.

He could try and run. He was fast – he could probably outrun Zsasz easily enough. But . . . he could see the silver edge of a gun peaking from the inside of his jacket. Zsasz would put a bullet in him before he ran ten yards. If he tried to squeeze back through the window Zsasz would just laugh before shooting him . . . and that was if he didn't let the fire kill him first. There was only one real option – and Bruce didn't fancy his chances. Then why did he feel so excited?

"This was your work then?" Bruce asked, jerking his thumb at the burning building. He knew it was, but he had to keep Zsasz talking.

"Some of it," Zsasz said. That shark smile widened. "Penguin will want to speak with you. He's put a pretty penny on your head. Fifty-thousand dollars. I don't really _need_ the money, but it would make a nice bonus... Say, why don't you take off that little mask so we can talk properly."

Bruce ignored the last. He might have gotten away with Mickey and his thugs seeing his face, but Zsasz would almost certainly recognise him for who he was. "If I caused as much trouble as you say then I don't imagine Penguin will let me go unharmed."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You don't have much of a choice." Zsasz's hand drifted towards his gun, and Bruce snapped forward. If the pale man was surprised he gave no sign – he almost looked _excited_.

By the time Zsasz grabbed and raised his gun, Bruce had closed the distance between them. If time had slowed down before Bruce felt like it was crawling now. Alfred's instructions rang between his ears – and his practised muscles moved without guidance.

 _Control the gun arm – do anything else before this and you're dead._ Bruce grabbed the gun barrel tightly in his hand, forcing it between their bodies towards the ground. The gun jerked, exploding with sudden heat and ferocity. The ground by Bruce's foot shattered in a small cloud of rubble. _Three quick jabs._ Still holding onto the gun in one hand, Bruce lashed out with his fist. The first punch collided with Zsasz's nose, the second his jaw, snapping it back, and the third pounded into his exposed throat.

 _Roll the gun._ As Zsasz reeled backwards, Bruce moved forward with him. Bruce took hold of the gun with both hands and rolled to towards himself. A sickening crunch sounded as Zsasz's trigger finger snapped from the thought. Then the gun was free and in Bruce's hand. The younger man retreated quickly, training the gun on Zsasz's broad chest.

Only a few seconds had past, but Bruce felt like he'd run a mile at full sprint. It was one thing to practice the technique with Alfred, but to actually do it for real was another thing entirely. Euphoria threatened to unnerve him. He forced the excitement down with deep, heavy breaths through his nose. The balaclava was stifling.

Zsasz looked down at his broken finger, then back at Bruce like he couldn't quite believe what had happened. His left nostril was stained with blood, but the man didn't even seem to notice. "Aren't you an interesting one..." he said, then he took a step towards Bruce.

"Get back," Bruce snarled at him. The killer didn't move.

"If you were going to shoot me you would have done it already." He regarded Bruce thoughtfully. "Not many people get the drop on me, boy. I think I'll carve you a special place for you." He traced a mark on his collarbone with his broken finger.

They felt the explosion before they heard it. A shockwave rocked the ground, and the force of the thing sent both Zsasz and Bruce sailing to the ground. Ears ringing, Bruce scrambled on his hands and knees. Where was the gun? It had been in his hand, but. . . Flames poured out of the narrow window, licking up the wooden walls towards the roof.

Bruce wouldn't get another chance. He took off in a sprint – away from the burning building and Victor Zsasz.

Zsasz's laughter followed him through the side-streets and alleyways. Bruce didn't stop running until he came to his motorbike – hidden under stinking, rat-chewed blanket far away from the bar.

He kicked the motorbike into life and roared away. He was halfway home when he realised he had been laughing too.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Selina wandered back into her apartment in a daze. It was almost five, and the city was just starting to show signs of waking up around her.

Ivy rushed out of her room seconds after Selina let the front door slam behind her. Tired bags sunk Ivy's eyes and her hair was a mess from sleep, but even looking as haphazard as she did she was still one of the most beautiful girls Selina had ever seen.

"Selina!" Ivy exclaimed. One hand covered her mouth, while the other help a kitchen knife limply to the side. Selina looked at the knife without really seeing it. She hadn't even noticed it before – something _was_ wrong with her.

"Hey, Ivy," Selina said. She shrugged out of her jacket and let it slide to the floor.

"You're back late," Ivy noted. A sly, _knowing_ smile spread across her face. "You were at that boy's place weren't you? What was his name?"

"I didn't _sleep_ with Aiden." Selina couldn't help but roll her eyes. "I . . . may have kissed him though. A little bit." Ivy clapped her hands together excitedly, and Selina held up her hands to settle her down. "It was just a kiss, Ivy. Nothing special."

"It's nothing special when _I_ kiss someone, Cat," Ivy replied. "When was the last time _you_ locked lips with a boy?"

It _had_ been a while, but compared to other events of the night, a quick kiss with Aiden really wasn't anything special. Something must have flashed across her face, because suddenly Ivy was sitting beside her, peering into her eyes with something very close to concern painted on her face.

"Is everything, all right?" she asked.

"Yeah." Selina flashed a quick reassure smile, but Ivy wasn't having any of it.

"Did he... He didn't _do_ anything to you, did he?"

Selina shot Ivy a sharp look. "You really think I'd let anybody touch me if I didn't want them to?"

"I suppose not, but . . . you're worried about _something_."

"I . . . don't worry about it, Ivy. It's nothing I can't handle." She tried to walk away, but Ivy grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the chair beside her. Selina sighed, but let herself be moved.

"I know something,'s up, Selina. _What's wrong_?"

 _Busted._ Selina looked up at Ivy with a big-eyed, _worried_ stare. "I think . . . I think I'm in some real trouble, Ivy."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Bruce didn't bother keeping knowledge of his night-time foray hidden. He roared his bike up the driveway instead of pushing it along and made a grand show of making noise as he put the bike back in the garage and stumbled into the house. His legs shook with remembered adrenaline and he had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright.

Alfred met him in the Entrance Hall. He was in his dressing gown again (Bruce mentally checked another tally) and glowered down at Bruce from the top of the stairs.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" he shouted. It was almost a relief to hear the butler shout. It was the quiet, seething anger than Bruce watched out for. "You can't go _three_ days without putting yourself in danger, can you?"

Bruce clambered up the stairs – leaning heavily on the railing (which Alfred definitely noticed) – and brushed past Alfred.

"You went to Van Low's again, didn't you? Come back with another broken nose? What about your collarbone? You haven't broken that yet."

"I'm fine," Bruce insisted.

"Like hell you are!" Alfred followed Bruce down the long always towards the study. "Look at you, you can barely stand!"

Bruce slowed his headlong walk, and made an effort to stand so that he wasn't leaning against the wall. His knees only shook a little, but he was certain Alfred couldn't tell. "Van Low's dead, Alfred," Bruce said, and was rewarded with the sudden end of his butler's fury. "Murdered."

"Did . . . did you?" Alfred hesitated, but Bruce knew what he meant.

"No," Bruce said after a long, awkward pause. "He was dead when I got there."

"And is that why you came haring back like the whole bloody city was on your tail?"

Bruce didn't reply.

"So it's over then?" Alfred asked. "If Van Low's dead he can't exactly go pointing his finger at people now, can he?"

"It's far from over." Bruce pushed open the door to his study and planted himself in front of the huge board covered in newspaper clippings and stolen police reports. At the centre of the board was the front page of the newspaper that had started all of this:

 **Vice Mayor Found Dead On Midtown El Tracks**

The headline made the death sound softer than it actually was. The Vice Mayor's death had sparked Gotham's morbid curiosity quite unlike anything else before it. It had been murder, plain and simple, but the papers had taken great care to avoid using that word at first. Then the crime scene details leaked and that all changed.

Vice Mayor Ipsen had been tied to the el-tracks. When the train that hit him finally stopped parts of his body had been found splattered on the el and the street below for yards and yards. The only part of him to escape total carnage had been his head.

The newspapers jumped on the story then. There was hardly a newspaper without a story about the murder somewhere on the front page. Bruce had read every one. The police reports were far more interesting. Bruce pointed at one in particular, pinned directly to the right of the very first article.

"The GCPD interviewed Van Low seven times in regards to Vice Mayor Ipsen's murder," Bruce said excitedly. "But they never tried to have him charged – you can read it all in the transcripts."

"Transcripts?" Alfred repeated, eyebrows high. He leaned forward to inspect the papers Bruce pointed at, face tight with disapproval. "Now how the hell did you get your hands on those."

"Doesn't matter," Bruce said quickly. He didn't think Alfred would appreciate that he'd hacked into the GCPD servers. "So if the police were certain that Van Low was involved, why didn't they charge him? I always wondered."

"Well, Van Low's just a small time fence, isn't he?" Alfred said. "Why would he murder Ipsen?" His face shifted, and Bruce knew he understood.

"Van Low worked for the Penguin, Alfred. The police didn't charge Van Low because they wanted him to flip on his boss."

"And you think the Penguin had him killed for it?"

"I don't think that's all to the matter," Bruce said. His mind was racing now. "The GCPD interviews with Van Low took place over two weeks. If Penguin was worried about Van Low turning on him, why not kill him sooner? Why kill him after the seventh interview, and not the first, or second? Something else happened recently that spooked Penguin."

"And I suppose you have your theory on that too, aye?"

"The girl I rescued from Van Low's the other night – the one they were going to kill..."

"You mean the night _you_ were almost _killed_?" Alfred said.

"You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"You came home half-drowned with a dislocated shoulder and a broken nose."

"Well I'm fine now."

Alfred snorted. "So I see... Tell me then, you have all these grand theories so far . . . what do you think this girl you saved has to do with all of this?"

"I . . . I don't know." Bruce didn't, and that was the simple truth. But she must be important somehow, why else would Zsasz mention Penguin being so mad about it? If she was just some girl Mickey and his gang grabbed, why did Penguin care so much?

"Whoa, whoa, what did you just say?" Alfred demanded, and Bruce realised he had voiced the last out loud. Well, there was no going back now.

"Penguin was there tonight. He murdered Van Low and had Victor Zsasz set the pub on fire. I suppose there was more inside that I never got the chance to see."

"You said Zsasz said something to you," Alfred said. Worry and anger twisted his voice into something that unsettled Bruce more than his shouting did. "Did you have a spot of tea with him, did you? Was it a nice conversation?"

" _Don't_ , Alfred," Bruce said. "We ran into each other outside the pub. He said that Penguin was going to pay a pretty penny to anyone who brought me in. Fifty-thousand dollars. It only affirms that that girl is somehow important . . . if only I knew her name..."

"Step back for a second, Bruce. You _ran_ into him? He wanted to _take you in_? How'd you get away?"

Bruce couldn't hold back the quick grin that spread across his face. The remembered adrenaline still filled his body with life and energy. "He pulled a gun on me, but I took it from him. Broke his finger. Just like you showed me."

Alfred's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hair. Deep down, Bruce was more than pleased at his butler's reaction. "You took his gun?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes . . . don't you believe me?"

"No I believe you . . . I'm just trying to process this whole . . . _mess_ you've gotten yourself into."

"I imagine Van Low passed on my description before he died," Bruce said without thinking. "Otherwise Penguin's men wouldn't know what to look for. Still, I can't imagine it was specific enough for someone to identify me, and the only ones who actually saw my face are dead."

Behind him, Alfred seethed. "Right. Pack your bags, Bruce. We're leaving the country for a while."

"What?" Bruce whirled around. "I'm not going anywhere."

"They have your description!" Alfred roared back at him. "That's what you said. And look at you, pleased as punch!" He shook his head in disbelief. "A man like Victor Zsasz doesn't forget people who get the better of him. Even without the money as a motivator you can be sure he'll be coming after you.

"Even with my description they won't know it's me. I was wearing a mask when I fought Zsasz, he didn't see my face. Besides, do you really think anybody out there really thinks _Bruce Wayne_ is running around fighting gangsters in the middle of the night?"

"If you keep coming back injured they might," Alfred retorted. "Anyway, this isn't up for discussions, I..."

"I'm _not_ leaving, Alfred," Bruce stated. "You can leave if you want, but I've made up my mind."

Alfred's worked his mouth but not a single sound came out for a few seconds. "I don't understand, Master Bruce," he finally said. "The Vice Mayor's murder was a horrible thing, but its not worth getting yourself killed over. Jesus, not even your parent's death are worth that price."

" _Don't_ bring my parents into this." Bruce's voice was quiet, but it could have sliced through steel.

"Why?" Alfred was not dismayed. "Am I starting to make sense?"

Bruce shook his head. "Ipsen's murder is only a symptom . . . my parent's murders too... This city is dying. Penguin and his mob are the disease – just like Falcone and Maroni before him. How many acts of violence have been committed at their hands? How many lives ruined?"

"That's dangerous talk there," Alfred said quietly. "Talk like that gets people killed."

"Sometimes dangerous talk is necessary – if its for a worthwhile cause."

Alfred shook his head in exasperation. "James Gordon and the entire bloody GCPD haven't been able to take down the mob. What makes you think you can?"

"I can go places the police can't," Bruce replied. "I can get things done while they're busy waiting on the system to fetch them their warrants."

Alfred was quiet for a long while. Then he said: "All right, so . . . hypothetically speaking then. You can't poke at Van Low anymore – Penguin saw to that. And you can't rightly go after the Penguin directly - not if you want to keep your head where it is. What do you intend to do?"

"The girl. She's a thread. I just have to pull it and see what comes tumbling out."

"And what do you think is going to come . . . tumbling out?" Alfred's tone was different now. He sounded less angry and more thoughtful.

"I don't know," Bruce admitted. "But I'm going to find out."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Author's Note: I've been catching up on all the Gotham episodes I've missed over the last year. I'd forgotten how much I like this show! This chapter went through several rewrites, and I'm still not happy with some parts. I like Selina's sections a lot. I think she's much easier to write than Bruce is. I feel like Selina is such an unreliable character to write for. The things that she does, thinks and feels are often three different things.

A huge thanks to all my reviews while I was away. I enjoyed reading each of them. Sorry if I haven't replied to some!

Reviews are like Selina Kyle's cheekbones. They fiiiine.


	5. Chapter 5: White Picket Fences

Chapter Five

\- White Picket Fences -

* * *

Bruce lay in the grass with his eyes closed, thoroughly enjoying the warm breeze shifting his school uniform and the gentle fingers playing with his hair. Cecelia hummed a wordless tune above him, and traced the half-healed cuts across his temple and beside his lip. All-in-all it was rather nice and made Bruce feel more relaxed then he had in days.

"You look tired," Cecelia told him.

Bruce opened his eyes a crack and met his girlfriend's green eyes. He _felt_ tired. Deep lines tinged with blue hung under _his_ eyes, and every time he closed them it was an effort to open them again. "I didn't sleep very well last night," Bruce answered, with only a tinge of guilt. It wasn't _really_ a lie, but he could hardly tell Cecelia that the reason he hadn't slept was because he'd been creeping around the city until dawn.

He would have chosen to stay home today so he could sleep, but Alfred, in his infinite wisdom, had played the guardian card and trundled Bruce off to school after only an hour of rest.

" _You_ might want to sleep through the day and traipse around the city's sordid underbelly all night, but you still have responsibilities to uphold." Alfred's voice had taken on the kind of stubborn firmness that meant he would not be moved on this particular issue. Frustrating, but not altogether unfair. "Foremost of which is going to school and getting a bloody good education. So you'll go to school, you'll pay attention, and by God maybe you'll give a little bit of that attention to that girlfriend of yours."

Bruce had spluttered at that. "What? What does Cecelia have to do with this?"

Alfred had settled back on the balls of his feet at that. "That you need to ask proves that you haven't been paying her any attention."

Outraged. "I spent all of yesterday evening with her!"

"I'd wager there wasn't a lot of one-on-one time with her, was there?"

There hadn't been. Bruce had been surrounded by Gotham's high society for most of the event. He'd had conversations about the state of Wayne Enterprises, about his injuries, asked about everything else in between. Cecelia had been by his side the whole time, but . . . he had barely spoken to her at all. Sometimes he really hated it when Alfred was right.

His silence was all the answer Alfred had needed, but instead of pressing his advantage he merely shrugged. "She's a lovely young woman, Master Bruce. Do try to make more of an effort with her."

Halfway through his tired morning, Bruce grudgingly admitted that Alfred had a point about Cecelia. Now that he was thinking about it, he realised he really hadn't spoken to her much at all since she told him she loved him on the steps to school on the first day back. So when he saw Cecelia with her group of friends at the start of lunch hour he made his way over to her and asked if they could spend the hour together. He didn't understand why Cecelia's cheeks flushed pink, or why her smile suddenly looked so pleased. He didn't understand why her friends giggled and hid their smiles behind their hands either.

When Cecelia agreed, Bruce took her hand – to the chorus of more giggling – and walked with her to one of the more isolated gardens on campus.

"Hello? Earth to Bruce." Cecelia waved a hand in front of his face. "Are you dreaming down there?"

"No." Bruce matched her smile. "Sorry. Did you say something?"

Cecelia scoffed. "You really _were_ dreaming. I asked if you had a good time at the exhibit last night."

"Oh. Yes I did." Alfred's advice flashed through his head. "But I wish I could have spent more time with you when we were there."

That pleased smile returned, and Bruce knew he had said the right thing. _It had to happen eventually._

 _"_ It's okay." Cecelia resumed running her hand through his hair. "I understand." She gave a heavy, nonchalant shrug. "Everyone wants to dig their claws into you."

 _And pull me in every direction._ "Cecelia?"

"Yes, Bruce?"

 _I can't tell her the truth, but maybe I can give her something..._ "I'm sorry I've been so distracted lately."

"Have you been?" Cecelia said airily. "I hadn't noticed." Her mischievous grin flashed, softening her words.

"I . . . there's a reason for it," Bruce went on. "I just don't want you to think that it's your fault in any way. You've been perfect . . . and understanding, and . . . I appreciate it."

Cecelia was quiet for a moment. "You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?" Bruce began to nod and opened his mouth, but Cecelia cut him off before he could speak. "I'm not trying to push you to talk about things you're not ready to; I just wanted you to know."

Bruce really did consider it then. He could have told her everything. He could have told her about his parents, his investigation into the deputy mayor's murder. He could have told her about how he looked for danger; about the _rush_ gave him. He could have told her things about himself only Alfred and Selina had ever known. Maybe Cecelia would even understand. But he doubted it.

The silence stretched on and then Cecelia shrugged, like she hadn't expected anything else from Bruce. "It's okay," she said reassuringly. "You know, I feel like I've been a little distracted too." To tell the truth, Bruce hadn't noticed. Then, Cecelia laughed and said. "You know when got all serious just then, I . . . I actually thought the conversation was going to go in a different direction."

"Oh?" Bruce didn't understand. Then a thought came to him. "Did you think I was about to break up with you?"

"No, no, I..." Cecelia's eyes dropped. "It doesn't matter."

"Tell me," Bruce said, half-laughing.

"No, I just thought . . . it's not important." All the levity had disappeared from her voice. Bruce was about prod her again, when it suddenly occurred to him what Cecelia must have meant.

"Cecelia," Bruce straightened and took both of Cecelia's hands in his own. Slowly, she lifted her eyes until they met his. "I'm really glad I have you." And for once, he actually meant it.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Are you coming to pick me up?

He'd sent the text to Alfred an hour before the end of school, but his phone had been silent. Bruce shoved it back into his pocket and glowered at the rapidly emptying courtyard out the front of school. He should have known Alfred would make him run home – especially after their discussion that morning. It would be just like him to have Bruce so busy and exhausted he wouldn't have time to continue his investigation.

With a heavy sigh and resigned to the seven mile run home, Bruce moved towards the gymnasium where his locker with his running clothes was. He was just finishing the laces on his shoes when the door to the locker room burst open and a tall man with wide shoulders and a balding head strode in. He was dressed in sports clothes – shorts and a white polo shirt embroidered with the Gotham Preparatory Wildcats logo. The man gave a start when he saw Bruce, before making his way towards him.

"Good afternoon, Coach," Bruce said.

"Bruce," Coach replied with a friendly grin. "I was hoping I'd run into you." He showed Bruce the clipboard he'd been holding. Two pages filled with names in a long list. Bruce recognised most of them – he _had_ played football with them last year, after all. "Sign up for the football season closes today. I noticed your name's not on the list."

To tell the truth, Bruce had forgotten all about football. With everything else going on he thought it was understandable. "I'm sorry," Bruce said. And he really did feel sorry. "But I don't think I'm going to play this year."

Coach didn't look surprised. "That's a damn shame. Can I ask why not?"

Bruce shrugged. "I don't want to over-commit my time and then fail to meet expectations."

"I see..." Coach frowned. "So this doesn't have anything to do with your injuries? I see your arm's not in a sling anymore."

Bruce unconsciously touched his shoulder. "No, why would my injuries have anything to do with my decision?"

Coach shrugged. "You see it sometimes with athletes who've been injured while playing. Confidence can be a shaky thing. It often doesn't take much to rock it. For a person who has built their life on their athleticism, suddenly being unable to do the things they used to because of an injury can really hit them hard."

Bruce was suddenly moved with the desire to reassure him. "It doesn't have anything to do with my injuries. I just . . . I have other things on my mind."

"Well, I suppose I can understand that." Coach nodded, and maybe he really did. "But I'm going to put your name down anyway." he held up his hand, forestalling Bruce's protests. "I want you to give it some real thought over the weekend, okay? And if you still feel the same way come practice on Monday I'll accept your decision. I don't know how the rest of the team will feel, but I'll honour your choice."

Bruce nodded. He supposed that was reasonable. "I'll give it some thought."

"That's all I ask." Coach went to leave then, but Bruce stood quickly and asked:

"Why are you doing this?"

Coach's eyebrows rose. "Doing what?"

"Fighting for me to come back," Bruce expanded. "I very much doubt you've gone to any of the others."

"Well, everyone else put their name down to play," Coach laughed.

"But still..."

Coach considered him seriously then. "Bruce, a player with your kind of physicality and talent only comes along once or twice in a person's career. I have a lot of good players on the team, but even on your worst day you outshine them. I'd hate to lose you, son." Taking the conversation as concluded, Coach nodded at him and disappeared into his office on the other side of the locker room.

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Parker's tiny, single-room apartment was freezing. He liked to keep the air-conditioning running all the time because he was scared the heat would fry his precious computers. In summer it was fine – refreshing even, but Selina knew he kept the cold on in the middle of winter too. Selina called that paranoid.

A wave of cold air blasted Selina's face as Parker opened the apartment door. His eyes widened at the sight of her and his mouth gaped open. "S-S-Sel . . . Cat," he finally managed to stutter out. "What are you doing here?"

Selina pushed the door open further and barged her way inside. Clothes had been strewn haphazardly over the carpet and were piled on top of the unmade bed. Parker had a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders; Selina really hoped that he was wearing clothes underneath. "I need a favour," she said bluntly. She didn't know Parker as well as Aiden, or some of her other contacts for that matter, but she had quickly learned that it was simply best to be upfront with the nervous man.

"A favour?" Parker repeated, clearly interested, despite himself. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What kind of favour?"

"Oh, nothing that will bring any trouble down on you," Selina waved her hand airily. _I hope._ She fished through her pocket and withdrew the photograph of the lost blonde woman Penguin had given her back when this all started. "I was hoping you could do your whole . . . computer thing and find out who this girl is."

She waved the picture in front of Parker's face and watched his eyes focus in on it curiously. "Why?" he asked.

"It's for another job," Selina replied.

"What other job?"

"Nothing to do with the museum."

But Parker wasn't comforted. "Does A-A-Aiden know about this?"

Selina scoffed. _Of course..._ "No."

"Don't you think you should tell him?"

"Why? It's none of his business."

"B-b-but..."

"Can you do it?" Selina cut Parker off before he could get going. "If you can't I'll just go find someone who can. It's too cold in here anyway."

"Oh, s-sorry," Parker said with a quick look at the humming air-conditioner. "The s-server needs to be kept cool."

 _Be patient, Selina_. "Not the point I was making, Parks..."

"What? Oh . . . right..." The skinny man looked back at her and Selina repeated her question. "Oh, yes, I can run a search for her. It's a simple matter of hacking into the GCPD servers and running her picture against the ones in their database." He descended into the intricacies of how and how-to. Selina let him mutter for a minute or two, before waving the picture in front of his face again.

"So you need this?"

Parker licked his bottom lip and took the photograph gently by the corner. "It's a little crumpled..."

"Is that a problem?"

"Shouldn't be..."

"Right, well, do you have any idea how long this will take?"

Parker shrugged. "It won't take long to set up the search, but who can say how long it will take to find a match – if there _is_ a match."

"Right..." Selina had suspected as much. "Well, give me a call if you find anything, yeah?"

But Parker had already gonna back to his computer. "What? Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah, I'll call you."

"And Parker?" Selina said. The man looked up at her. "Don't tell Aiden about this."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Bruce pushed away the temptation to slow to a talk as he ran up the long driveway towards the manor. Sweat slipped down his face and stained his shirt. The last two miles had been a struggle in the afternoon heat. Something pricked at the back of his mind; something that _kept_ him at his steady, ground-churning pace even when his lungs ached for him to stop.

He took the last hundred yards at a sprint, leaping up the small steps to touch the front door with his fingertips. He nearly collapsed then, heart pounding and lungs gasping for breath. Tiny needles pricked at his sides, keeping him hunched over. He didn't remember the run being this hard at the end of last year. In fact used to run to _and_ from school and was able to recover after a few minutes or so of rest.

 _You didn't run once over the summer_ , he reminded himself with a scowl. He'd hiked, he'd climbed, he'd trained with Alfred, he'd swum, but he hadn't run more than a mile at a time.

When the pain in his sides began to fade, Bruce straightened and threw the front door open. Ear-pounding silence welcomed him, and Bruce frowned. "Alfred?" he called.

Nothing.

The little prickling in the back of his mind intensified.

Surely the Penguin hadn't found him. Bruce had been _sure_ that no one knew it was _him_ that had caused so much trouble. The only people who had actually seen his face were dead, and even then they hadn't known who he was. Why would _Bruce Wayne_ be busting into pubs at two-in-the-morning? Still, that prickling remained.

He stalked deeper into the manor. "Alfred?" he called again.

"In the garden," Alfred's voice cut through the quiet. Bruce felt a weight lift from his shoulders he hadn't realised had been there. It must have been the lack of sleep...

He stopped short just outside the garden, eyebrows rising in surprise. Alfred sat at the round glass table near the pool with a cup of tea in front of him. Three other men sat around the table too. All of them turned to look at Bruce when he appeared.

Alfred's air of relaxation never wavered, which served to assuage some of the tension in Bruce's shoulders. "Master Bruce," he said, rising from the table. The other men rose with him. "You're home later than expected."

"Coach wanted to talk to me," Bruce said. "And I wasn't sure if you were coming or not." He wove a stab of accusation into the last sentence, but if Alfred noticed he gave no sign.

"Well, no matter. You're here now. Ahh, where are my manners." Alfred brushed his waistcoat with the back of his hand, before gesturing to a small, bald man with a sharp nose. "This is Marcus Essen," Alfred said. "He served in the British Special Air Service with me."

"For a little while," the short man, Essen said. He didn't _sound_ British; in fact, Bruce struggled to pick any kind of accent on the man at all. "I was still green when Alfred left the service."

"Well, any friend of Alfred is more than welcome here," Bruce said politely. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a shower." he pulled at his sweaty shirt and made to leave.

"Wait a tic, Master Bruce," Alfred said quickly. "As good as it's been catching up with Essen, I didn't invite him here for a mere social call."

Bruce frowned. "Oh? Then why is he here?"

"You said you wanted training against multiple combatants. I took the liberty of finding you some."

Bruce's eyes widened in surprised. He looked between Alfred and Essen. The bald man's amused expression remained plastered on his face. "Excuse us a moment," Bruce said, pulling Alfred aside.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Bruce asked in a low voice.

Alfred regarded Bruce consideringly. "I've taught you all I can, and I can't give you the training you need now. Essen is one of the best – he kept his head after leaving the service, and I can't say that about some of us."

Bruce nodded. "All right then."

"Right," said Alfred loudly, to both Bruce and Essen and his men. He smoothed his waistcoat as he was prone to do and stepped away. "I'll leave to it, then."

Essen nodded and took Alfred's place in front of Bruce. "A pleasure to meet you, Master Wayne," he said, holding out his hand for Bruce to shake. "Alfred speaks very highly of you, and he's never been a man to give praise lightly."

"Thank you." Bruce shook his hand. "I'm sorry, but he's never mentioned you before."

Essen smirked. "He wouldn't have, would he. He's not a man to drudge up the past, either. Always moving forward that Alfred Pennyworth.

"Now," Essen continued. "Alfred has told me of your training thus far. He says you have considerable skill and experience in single combat and a range of melee weapons – including fencing and the use of a quarterstaff." His lip curled at those last two. "But he says that fighting multiple opponents is a potential area of weakness – one that I am here to help rectify." Essen tilted his bald head. "You're an interesting one. A man as rich as you can hire an army to your fighting for you. But you want to do it yourself. Though that _is_ understandable considering what happened to your family."

Bruce felt his jaw clench.

"It's none of my business, I know." The small man raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Alfred is paying us to train you, not to ask questions . . . no matter how interesting they may be. Now." He clapped his hands. "There's no use talking. Let's get started, shall we?" He jerked his head at his companions. "Take positions."

The two men stood in front of Bruce in the small courtyard. Both seemed relaxed, though Bruce recognised the posture after his years of training with Alfred. It was the same kind of look Zsasz had had – although not so extreme. Both looked as through they could burst into violence at a moments notice.

"The first rule of fighting more than one opponent," Essen barked from the side, "is don't do it." He and the two other men surrounding Bruce laughed.

"What kind of rule is that?" Bruce asked. Then men moved slowly in a circle around him. He tried to keep his eyes on all of them, but the moment he turned to look at one, another slipped out of his vision.

"A wise one," Essen said. "A wise man picks his battles. He picks his battlefield. He gives himself every advantage while leaving none for his enemies. A wise man will only pick battles he knows he can win."

"A fight in the streets isn't a battle." More laughter.

"Of course it is," Essen said, amused.

Bruce shook his head. Exhaustion was playing on his patience. "You're not telling me anything useful," he said sharply. "Not every fight can be perfectly planned. Sometimes there isn't time."

Essen nodded. "Perhaps you are too young to understand what I mean. Young people always think they're invincible, even when life throws them a sucker punch to show them they're not." He eyed Bruce's half-healed bruises and cuts significantly. "But of course, you are right, there are times when you must fight in circumstances outside of your control. In those situations you must _take_ control. Wrest it from your opponent as surely as you are wresting for your life. Now. The gentleman on your left is going to come at you." The large man on Bruce's left grinned and nodded. "Defend yourself!"

It was like Essen's final word was a whistle. The large man stalked towards Bruce, fists raised. Bruce moved to face him, but as soon as he did pain and force erupted over his back and he collapsed to one knee. The slightly smaller man with bulging biceps stared down at him, rubbing his right elbow with his other hand.

"Mistake," Essen said. "Never let an opponent get behind you."

"You said that _he_ ," Bruce jerked his finger at big man, "was going to attack me."

"But I never said the other wasn't going to, did I?"

Growling, Bruce rose to his feet.

"Again!" Essen barked.

Face twisting in a silent snarl, Bruce backed away, moving away from both men in an effort to keep them both in sight. Before he had moved more than three steps, Essen's voice rang out again.

"Mistake! You cannot take control of a fight by waiting for your enemies to come at you. You must _attack_ , Master Bruce. Be _fast_ , be _viscous;_ overwhelm one before the other has a chance to engage you."

 _He's right._ It was a sudden, but satisfying realisation; one that Bruce really should have made himself. He thought back to his fight against Van Low and his thugs. He had attacked them ferociously, overwhelming them so the girl could use the opportunity to escape. But after she left he had slowed down and let one of them get behind him. It had been over as soon as that happened. It was the same with his encounter with Zsasz. The only reason he had gotten away was because he had attacked. If he had waited for the murderer to attack him, then he was sure he wouldn't be standing here right now. The thought sent chills down his spine.

"Again!" he heard Essen shout. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the first man come towards him. Lips pulled back in a silent snarl, Bruce spun on his heel and charged towards him. He was momentarily rewarded by the big man's eyes widening in surprise – clearly he thought Bruce intended to rush at the other man. He turned aside Bruce's first punch easily, but Bruce allowed his momentum to carry him forward. He hooked his foot behind the big man's leg and used his body weight to push him over. The big man fell heavily, almost taking Bruce with him.

It was the precious second Bruce took to regain his balance that cost him. The other man's fist collected Bruce's jaw as Bruce spun around to meet him. Stars danced across Bruce's vision and he hit the ground beside the first man with a resounding thud.

"Mistake," Essen's voice rang out.

Bruce groaned.

When the sun set two hours later they were done, with Bruce feeling more bruised and tired than he ever had in his life. The men he had fought shook his hand on their way out, but left Essen the final words.

"That was a good start, Master Bruce," Essen said, nodding in approval. "You move well, strike hard, and you don't make the same mistake twice. I do believe there is hope for you yet."

"Thank you." Bruce shook Essen's hand. "It was educational."

Essen snorted. "We'll be back tomorrow," he said with a tight smile at Alfred. "And every day after . . . if the money is as good as it was today."

Bruce's stomach sank. _Every day?_

"Of course." Alfred handed Essen a thick envelope.

Essen tapped the envelope to his forehead and followed the larger men out into the driveway. "Until tomorrow."

Alfred closed the door behind Essen, before turned on Bruce with an expression that was something very close to smugness on his face. "How are you feeling then?" he asked Bruce.

"Sore," Bruce replied, rubbing his jaw where the first punch had hit. The two men had avoided his face after that first one. Bruce could feel fresh bruises across his torso and back, but it was the one on his jaw that concerned him. How was he going to explain that to Cecelia?

"I'll bet," Alfred said. "How about I run you a nice bath with epsom salts before dinner?"

"An epsom bath would be nice." Bruce felt like each of his muscles had been chewed up and sit back out.

Alfred nodded and turned to make his way up the stairs. "Alfred..." Bruce said quickly. The butler paused and looked at him with his eyebrows slightly raised. "Thank you for this." He wasn't _just_ talking about the combat lessons.

Alfred nodded like he knew what Bruce was trying to get at. "You're welcome, Master Bruce."

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

"Alright then," Aiden scratched his jaw (he did that a lot), lips twisting with thought. "How about . . . the take that you put a lot of effort into getting, but it turned out to be worthless."

Selina snorted. "Who says any of my takes have been worthless?"

"Everyone good thief has had a worthless take," Aiden countered quickly.

"Not me."

"Liar."

Selina screwed up her face and made a big deal about thinking. She and Aiden were lounging on the water feature in the centre of Gotham's Centennial Park, eating street food and talking. Selina hadn't expected Aiden's call, but she was grateful for the company. Last night had set her nerves permanently on edge and she didn't want to be alone, as much as she hated to admit it.

"All right," she said slowly. "There may have been _one_ take that didn't turn out the way I wanted."

"There's always one," Aiden replied with a smug grin.

Selina swotted his arm. "All right, so a few years ago Ivy stole an emerald necklace from some guy she was banging." Well, Ivy never slept with him . . . Ivy didn't sleep with _just anyone_. But she liked to cultivate that reputation, said it made her job easier. And it made her story sound better. "Turns out the emerald was just coloured glass..."

"I wanted a story about one of _your_ worthless takes," Aiden interrupted, "not one of Ivy's."

Selina waggled a finger in his face. "Oh, I'm not finished with the story yet. "You know how we found out it was just glass?"

"I take it you didn't take it to a fence who threw back in your face?"

"Might as well have," Selina replied with a shrug. "I dropped it."

Aiden scoffed. "I didn't think you had butterfingers."

"Are you going to let me finish or not?"

Aiden made a little halo with his fingers above his head. The gesture looked so ridiculous coming from him it made Selina laugh. "Well, _inside_ the fake emerald was a key, right. And using my sharp, detective mind I managed to find out that it was a key to a safe somewhere. I even managed to find out where that safe was." There was no need to mention _Bruce Wayne_ being a key figure in that story. Aiden would think she was lying for sure then. "So I snuck in, found the safe – had to _fucking_ tightrope walk across a floor covered in those laser tripwires. It was ridiculous. Inside the safe was this glass owl statue. No gold, not jewels, nothing exciting. Just a pathetic little owl statue."

"I take it you took it anyway."

"After all that work you bet I did. It was a big waste of time in the end. I didn't see a single dime after all that work, and ended passing off the owl to some rich kid with more money than sense."

"That's some story, Cat."

"I don't go around telling that story to just anyone, so you should feel lucky."

"Oh, I do." Aiden certainly did seem amused.

"Good. Now, my turn." She thought for a moment. "What's the _worst_ thing you've ever done for a take?"

Aiden exhaled deeply, but his grin remained firmly in place. "You're punching pretty low tonight," he said, then shrugged. "I was going to steal some old painting tucked away in an old woman's bedroom. It was an original Monet, I think." Selina shrugged. She knew next-to-nothing about Art. "I broke into her house late one night – she lived up on the hill with the rest of the elite – and I was just taking the painting off the wall when she wandered into the room. The old woman moved so quietly I didn't even hear her."

"What happened then?" Selina asked. "You didn't kill her did you?"

"I probably could have and gotten away with it," Aiden said. "The old woman was a slip in the shower away from croaking. But, no, she was half-deaf and as blind as a bat and thought I was her long lost son come back. She didn't have any living family, you know. Her son went off to war and never came home. So I pretended to be her son for a month or so before she passed away. She actually changed her will and left everything to me too. It's ironic, you know, I tried to steal a painting that she ended up giving me anyway."

"Wait, she left you _everything_?" Selina said.

"House, the loft in the city, and everything inside both of them . . . I ended up donating the Monet painting to the Gotham gallery." He was quiet for a minute or so, face down-turned in thought.

"I was wondering how you managed to afford that apartment," Selina said lightly.

Aiden snorted. "I haven't been back to the house since. I don't know what to do with it."

"You could sell it." Selina suggested. "Or let gutter trash like me squat in there."

"You're too good-looking for gutter trash, but I could..." Aiden said. "But it's my turn now." His eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. "Are we going to talk about what happened last night?"

Lots of things had happened last night. Selina sifted through the events before she realised what Aiden meant. Thankfully she didn't blush, in fact, if Aiden's comment had caught her off guard at all she gave no sign. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow at him and placed a fist on her hip. "You really want to talk about that?"

Aiden's mischievous glint remained firmly in place. "It was . . . unexpected. Whenever I think I know what you're going to do, Cat, you always end up surprising me."

Selina's stomach swelled with pleasure. "Worst lie you've ever told?"

Aiden scoffed. "You didn't answer _my_ question."

"No, we're not going to talk about it. Now my question."

Aiden didn't seem put off, but that glint in his eyes vanished. He tapped his jaw again, brow furrowed with thought. "Worst lie . . ." he said. "'I love you'. Probably. Yours?"

It didn't take Selina long to think of her answer. "'I'll be back soon'."

"That doesn't sound very happy."

"Neither does yours."

"The ones we remember often aren't." Aiden tapped his jaw again. He looked very much like he was about to dive into a freezing cold swimming pool – all anticipation and reluctance. "I got a call from Parker earlier..." Selina stiffened. "He sounded stressed out – a lot more than usual, anyway."

"What'd he tell you?" Selina asked cautiously. _I knew I shouldn't have gone to him._

"That you should go back to whoever hired you and tell them to stick the job."

"He shouldn't have told you!" All semblance of relaxation disappeared from Selina's shoulders. She stalked away a few paces before rounding back on Aiden at the sound of his voice.

"Parker's _my_ contact, Selina," Aiden said. He had started to follow her, but stopped moving when she did. "He tells me anything he thinks could impact the job."

"You mean whatever gets his anxiety up," Selina retorted.

"Whatever you're being paid it's not worth getting sucked into the Russian mob," Aiden replied. "Parker just..."

"Russian mob?" Selina interjected. "Who said anything about the Russian mob?"

Aiden stared at her. "The girl you had Parker look up – her name's Katherine Popov. She's in deep with the Russians, Selina. And that's not the worst part either..."

For some reason, the use of her real name only vexed Selina. She glared at Aiden, not really hearing him. _The Russians?_ she thought. The Russian mob was small time in Gotham; The Penguin and his gang had seen to that. The Russians had barely gotten a foothold in the city before the Penguin forced them down. Selina had no idea why Penguin would care so much about one Russian girl. It didn't make sense. "Wait, what did you say?"

Aiden raised his eyebrows at her. "The GCPD has a warrant out on her. They want her for questioning – apparently she knows something about the deputy mayor's murder. Half the police force in Gotham is combing the streets for her. I know of five safe houses that have been turned over this week!"

"Jesus, is there _anyone_ who _isn't_ looking for this girl?" Selina threw up her hands.

"I know you think of yourself as a sort of champion for the disenfranchised..."

"What?!"

Aiden cut across her. "But it's best to just leave this one alone. Tell the Russians you couldn't find her – or better yet, don't tell them anything at all and lie low until we're ready for the museum job. Rescuing _one_ girl isn't worth all the shit you're gonna pull down on your head if you go on with this. Trust me, Selina. Some things just _aren't_ worth the trouble."

 _He thinks the Russians hired me..._ Selina thought incredulously, but she refused to be put off guard. Indignation mixed with anger rushed through her veins. "That's pretty rich coming from you,:" she spat at him. Aiden scoffed, but Selina pressed on. "Gotham Museum of Antiquities. Really, Aiden? I don't know why I even bought into your fucked up plan. You'll probably get us all killed!"

"The plan's solid," Aiden replied calmly – much to Selina's frustration. "You really think I'd lead you in there if I thought we were all gonna get pinched?"

 _Maybe not_ , she thought. She wished he would yell back at her, try to hit her even, his impenetrable wall of self-assurance prickled her as much as Parker's betrayal. "What _I_ do in my _own_ time is none of your goddamn business."

"It is if it's gonna affect the job," Aiden replied firmly. "We're all fucked if you get busted by the cops – or dumped in the river by the Russians. We _can't_ do this without you, Selina."

 _It's the Penguin I'm worried about._ Fuck, she needed to find this girl soon. Something must have changed on her face, because Aiden stepped closer to her and took her shoulder in his hand.

"Just . . . let it go," he told her.

"It's not that simple," she replied. Maybe Aiden _could_ help her. He knew as much of Gotham's underworld as she did. Maybe even more. He'd been the closest thing to a street legend for as long as Selina had been living on them. "I _need_ to find her. I don't have much of a choice."

Aiden nodded slowly. "All right. . ." he said. "I don't know who's got the dirt on you, but it's obviously bad enough to have you this scared."

Selina bristled with indignation. "I'm not scared."

"Of course not," Aiden replied with a knowing smile.

"I'm not." Selina crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared at Aiden.

"Whatever." Aiden's finger went to his jaw again. "You know, I did a bit of digging when Parker called me. This Russian girl has gone to ground hard. No one I spoke to had any idea where she was – and some people seemed willing to pay more than a pretty penny for her whereabouts."

" _You_ did some digging?" Selina asked, her eyebrows threatened to disappear into her hairline. "Why?"

"You're one of my contacts too," Aiden replied, as if that explained everything. "Don't you think it's odd that no one seems to know anything?"

"Well, yeah..." Selina replied. No one just _disappeared_ in Gotham. "Wait, you're not gonna try and stop me from looking for her?"

Aiden snorted. "Would it really make a difference if I tried? The sooner you get this out of the way the sooner we can focus on the museum."

 _What's he playing at?_ "She's probably dead at the bottom of the river by now," she said dismissively. Why would he want to get sucked into this?

"I don't think so," Aiden replied. "Word would have gotten around if that were true. I just keep thinking: if I were in real trouble, where would I go to lie low for a while."

"You think I haven't thought of that too?" Selina countered. She'd been thinking of almost nothing else for the past few days now. Certainly not since the Penguin's mini-massacre last night.

"Well are there any places you could go, but wouldn't – even if you were beyond desperate?"

Selina thought about that. Wayne Manor came to mind first, but maybe that was because Bruce fucking Wayne had been popping into her mind ever since she had heard Zsasz's description. But she would almost rather be caught by the Penguin then go back to Wayne Manor.

"If I were a girl I know where I'd go if there was nowhere else," Aiden said. "Though, from what I've heard about the place I think it would almost be better to face what's coming my way."

"What do you..." Then it clicked in Selina's mind. Her mouth gaped open for a moment. "You're talking about Neon Paradise," she finally said. "That's crazy."

Aiden shrugged. "It's just an idea."

But it made sense. The infamous club-slash-brothel was considered neutral territory. The gangs wouldn't dare go looking in around there. Not even Penguin would . . . although he had seemed so unhinged the other night, Selina wouldn't be surprised if that changed soon.

The beginnings of a plan sent its creepers into Selina's head. It wasn't a good plan – it was a shit one, really, but how much choice in the matter did she really have?

* * *

0.0.0

* * *

Author's Note: I binge-watched Gotham to catch up over the last few weeks. Holy balls they had some good episodes! It's been awesome seeing Bruce become more competent in season 3. He and Selina and Jerome were easily the best parts of the season so far. I don't like Doppelganger Bruce. I think that's a cheesy plotline. And I'm not sure how I feel about the bringing-dead-back-to-life thing. Removing the fear of death from the story is one of the reasons Heroes failed so hard. It's almost impossible to create meaningful tension without death being a permanent consequence (Game of Thrones has this point down perfectly). It 'seems' to be okay so far in Gotham. It worked for Jerome, because he still has a lot of weight in the series and the future beyond the series, but I wish they didn't bring Fish Mooney back. I liked the character, but she served her purpose by developing Penguin's character. Bringing her back only seemed to backtrack on all that wonderful season one Penguin development. I also think the Nygma/Penguin friendship breakup could have been done better, rather than going down the whole Isabella route. I don't know how though.

But anyway, thank you to guest and time-failed-us for reviewing, and all those who fav'd. Please drop a review – they help keep me writing :).


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